Somewhere In The Crowd
by Polgaria
Summary: Miranda Priestly was in her office when the blackout happened. Donna Sheridan was in the middle of painting the courtyard wall. The events leading to the foreseen future contained herein. A DWP/Mamma Mia/Flashforward x-over. PLEASE R
1. Chapter 1

_Kalokairi, October 6th, 17:45:53_

Donna eased the lid from a can of turquoise paint, grunting as the end of the screwdriver became stuck in the petrified latex. Since her impromptu marriage to Sam Carmichael several months prior, hope waned for an end to her DIY endeavours around the villa- her husband over-eagerly instigating renovation almost the moment after she'd said 'I do'.

Graciously, the rusted lid gave way with a satisfying hiss of escaped air, and the woman gave the liquid a cursory stir before holding the stick critically against the freshly plastered wall of the Villa's central courtyard.

_It'll do_, she mused, discarding the stick on a nearby drop cloth. Sam had found the paint, all seventeen gallons of it, at a surplus outpost on the mainland, and mindful of Donna's frugal nature, happily had the lot shipped to the small island of KaloKairi several days later. Now, faced with an overwhelming expanse of architecture, shimmering newly in the evening light, the villa owner pondered the virtues of a more natural aesthetic.

"This is the new colour?"

Donna turned, a frown creasing her forehead at the accusing tone in the other woman's voice. Agathe, a long tenured employee, had never been known for her tact. The older Greek woman surveyed the situation, arms crossed loosely over her floral printed bosom.

"This is the paint Sam bought," the blond replied a little testily, dipping a brush into the offending can and slapping it wetly onto the low wall, a sense of rebellion in her movements.

"It is- vibrant," commented Agathe carefully, glancing around the courtyard as if trying to envisage the painted walls. "But the sun will bleach it out in a month or two, yes?"

Donna glared at the garish patch of paint, before reloading her brush and continuing. "It had better," she groused quietly, and Agathe turned to leave. "Is Sam still down at the docks with Pepper? I swear, those deliveries from the mainland are getting later and later-

Agathe moved to the wall, squinting down the steep, craggy cliff to the water. "I do not see the Jeep- he must come."

"Good," the paintbrush squelched as Donna forced the bristles into the uneven surface. "Neither of us is eating until this section is done- I don't need paint lines compounding how hideous this colour is."

Agathe clucked, and patted the younger woman on the shoulder before retreating to the kitchen to begin fixing dinner. _Fish_, she muttered to herself in Greek, _or perhaps a cheese pie…_

Donna returned half-heartedly to her task- each second that passed without her husband was making the hue uglier. Despite her griping, and the increased workload, her marriage to Sam had become a comfortable, supportive situation. It wasn't idyllic. What partnership was? But she and the architect had fairly successfully leapt the two decade gap between their affairs, and had learned to love and respect the evolved versions of one another.

Donna stood, scrutinizing the wall under the shifting evening light, and leaned towards the drop cloth to-

"_Mummy- she's here!"_

_Donna shifted from one foot to the other, grinning as she was bombarded by an identical pair of affectionate redheads, who dragged her down a sleek hallway and into a sitting room. Freckled faces pressed kisses to her cheeks and flannel-clad bodies snuggled close. _

_And then they were gone, summoned, it seemed by the delicate staccato gait of someone approaching from the hallway. Donna smiled to herself, her chest suffused with warmth._

_An elusive perfume drifted lazily into her senses as someone approached and leaned casually against the arm of the sofa. Donna's grin widened as she turned against cushions and pressed her face into silky fabric, her hands sliding possessively around the slender waist of a woman who smelled of bergamot and pink pepper and…_

Donna blinked, wincing- a world of turquoise, canvas; pain lancing up her back and under a shoulder blade. Rolling fitfully sideways, she encountered another three cans of paint and stilled, staring up at the azure evening sky. She blinked again, her perspective finally aligning the cobbled stones beneath her back with the cooling light, illuminating the fringes of dissipating clouds, spreading like un-spun wool across the sun.

Gradually coming to a sit, the nausea dissipating, Donna glanced around, perplexed- Agathe was hauling her stout body up against the door frame of the kitchen, and a trembling girl who helped with the housework, Eleni, was crawling on all fours from the direction of the guesthouses, a nasty gash on her forehead bleeding freely, dark eyes panicked. Peeling paint-slick hair away from her cheeks, Donna eased herself to a stand, and approached the young woman, kneeling down to inspect the cut.

"What the Christ happened?" Donna murmured, wiping the blood away with a corner of the girl's shirt. "Earthquake?" Eleni shook her head, confused, wincing as the older woman inspected the gash. "Put some ice on that, honey- and sit by the radio. Agathe?" Donna continued, striding towards the cook, "You good?"

The woman nodded, straightening her linen apron. Donna offered a tight smile.

"Good. Help Leni with the ice, and for god's sake, don't use stuff that the fish was sitting on- I'm going to find Sam."

As her grimy canvas shoes carried her smoothly down the stone steps towards the road, panic fluttered in Donna's chest, the eerie calm in the air suddenly interrupted with shouts of confusion and horror. Her pace quickened.

Spilling onto the road, the worn soles of her runners slipped and slid on the steep gravel nearer a group of people making slow progress up the uneven slope towards the villa, a staggering, incoherent Pepper in their midst. _No_.

Donna stepped forward, as if wading against a strong current, and stopped. She fought for breath. _No. _

Pepper, shaking, saw her frozen there and stumbled, tripped, sank to his knees. Donna's gut churned, she moved again, closer- the young man was choking, babbling, and as she approached; his face upturned and she saw the tears dripping down his dark cheeks, streaking through drying blood. Their eyes locked and he wilted, cowered, looked away.

Donna searched the faces of her staff and found pity, remorse- sickening knowledge. An old man with kind eyes reached towards her to take an arm and she shrugged him off with a whimper.

Spinning, tripping, sick with dread, Donna sprinted past the small throng and hurtled down the dusty roadway, skidding once more to a standstill as the acrid sting of sooty, oily smoke forced entry to her aching lungs. There it sat, in it's fuming mockery; her jeep, wrapped around a jagged outcropping of the hill; her husband, her lover, pinned behind the large steering wheel; a corpse.

_It's very Greek_, she thought, hysterical laughter rising on a wave of bile; she retched.

Quivering weakly, Donna moved through the spiralling smoke, the hood of the jeep hot, searing her hand. She climbed in beside him, then, his body still warm against her own. She closed her eyes, locked in a juvenile game of pretend, his cologne barely discernable underneath the tangy smell of blood and oil.

Panicked voices seemed a distant echo and Donna writhed away from invasive hands, struggling against the arms that locked around her chest; dared to haul her away. She lashed, squirming, shrieking, clinging onto his bloodied shirt until, in a gracious twist of irony, she felt her head connect with the large rear view mirror and sunk once more into unconsciousness.

* * *

_Manhattan, October 6th, 10:59:06_

Smirking, Miranda absently twirled a length of coiled cord between her fingers, amused at the panic which had slowly crept into the voice of the woman at the other end of the line.

"Brigitte," she began, the timbre of her voice in no way betraying her particular brand of mirth. "You're babbling. I thought the last shoot was relatively successful, so I see no reason why a second spread of your photographs shouldn't be featured in _Runway's_ December issue."

Dead air.

"Brigitte?" Had the woman succumb to a fit of nerve-induced apoplexy?

"T-thank you Miranda, I-"

The editor pinched the bridge of her nose- as brilliant as Lacombe was, the french photographer's lacking sense of entitlement was beginning to grate. Fleetingly, she wondered what on earth was taking Lyla so bloody long to fetch her coffee. "Get in touch with Nigel before next Thursday, I'm sure he will have several suggestions of note. That's a-

_Miranda leaned casually against the counter, warm soapy water leaving small rings of bubbles around her bare forearms. The doorbell rang, and she smiled. _

"_Would somebody get that?"_

_The pounding of two pairs of feet signalled the twin's descent, and moments later, Miranda heard squeals of excitement and a warm, familiar laugh._

_Indulging in a quiet smile, Miranda poured two glasses of wine and headed into the living room, to be met by her retreating daughters, on their way to bed. She received two sleepy hugs, and throwing a 'goodnight' over her shoulder, she walked up behind the blond sitting on her sofa. _

_Though the woman's face was turned away, Miranda saw the relaxed, smile, the eyes closed in quiet contentment; the large gilt mirror across the room formed a candid glimpse into that secret expression._

_Miranda inhaled deeply, drawing her affection for this woman close as she leaned casually against the arm of the sofa, and the blond turned into her, nuzzling her face against Miranda's stomach…_

Miranda stirred to the drone of a dial tone; her phone had hung itself over the edge of her desk, and swung pendulously. The tepid latte she had been contemplating drinking, desperate for caffeine, had landed on the floor and was pooling near her face; sinking into the expensive fibres of the office rug.

Miranda shifted, groaning as an impressive charlie horse coiled up her arm. Wondering what exactly the _fuck_ was going on, the editor gripped the edge of her desk, fighting off a wave of vertigo, and stalked out to accost her first assistant.

Maddy, who had only just crawled into her chair, seemed to be suffering the same bout of dizzying confusion and Miranda realised quite quickly that something entirely untoward had just taken place.

"Madeleine," Miranda seethed quietly. "Find out what's going on. _Now._"

Fingers flying over her keyboard, Maddy pulled up a streaming news report within seconds. "There- there's been some kind of- god-" the girl choked at the images of chaos filling the window. "It's happened all over the city, people just blacked out- everywhere- _fuck_."

No longer interested in the details, and overcome by a desperate urgency, Miranda snatched the phone from the assistant's desk and dialled Caroline's cell. It rang. And rang. Miranda was finding it difficult to breath, and god _help _whoever was responsible for this if anything had happened to--

"Mommy?" The terrified sound of her daughter's voice tore Miranda abruptly away from the surfacing death threats whizzing through her mind.

"Are you both alright?" Miranda shuddered at how much fear had crept into her voice. Over the static, she could hear children wailing and the harried female voice of the girl's teacher.

"We're fine- Mommy what-"

"Stay where you are, I'm coming to get you right now." Miranda allowed herself a singular, calming breath. "I love you, both." Betraying her nerves, Miranda crashed the phone back into it's cradle, fetched her own purse for the first time in two decades, and sprinted from the office.

In her haste, the editor nearly pulled a mac truck on her startled art director, who was emerging from the studio, a flustered but otherwise unharmed Emily close on his heels.

"Shit-" Miranda cursed, "-sorry. The girls, I have to-"

Nigel stepped forward and place a stalling hand on the editor's shoulder, while Emily gawked. He was worried. "Are they hurt, Miranda?"

The editor tossed her head distractedly, the usually coiffed forelock tussling out of place. "They're fine- scared. I have to _go-_" she shook off the restraining hand.

"Miranda," Nigel began calmly. "Have you looked out a window? The street's are chaos, there are accidents everywhere- people are already _looting_ for Christ's sake. If the girls are safe, there's no sense you going out there in _that_ and getting-"

Miranda spared a precious second to affix the art director with an eviscerating glare. "They are my _children_," she seethed, before taking off again down the hallway.

"Mama bear," Nigel mused quietly, as Emily collapsed in a nearby chair with a resounding _bloody hell_.

Panting, Miranda exited the staircase and bolted through the lobby as fast as her four inch heels would allow. As she shoved her way through the heavy revolving door, the collective wail which had become the Manhattan soundscape washed over her, a thick fog of crying, pleading, screaming.

The streets ceased to exist as a thoroughfare, constipated with wrecked vehicles; the wounded; the dead. Miranda choked, swallowing her nausea- this was not her city.

_The girls. _

Steeled against the turmoil surrounding her, Miranda set her questing eyes on an abandoned bicycle; having given into the reality- after five minutes of aching arches gifted to her by her impossibly high Prada pumps- that she wasn't going to make to Dalton anywhere as quickly as her desperation required on foot.

A wry sense of irony caused Miranda to roll her eyes as she swerved around a particularly nasty car accident: if the press could see her now; burgundy pencil skirt riding high on her thighs, cream trench dragging dolefully on the bike's rear tire.

In what should have been a fifteen minute endeavour, Miranda arrived at the school an actual thirty seven minutes after setting out, having had to detour, backtrack; all out hauling the bike over the wreckage that had been her domain.

Breathing heavily, a clammy sheen of sweat chilling her skin, the editor abandoned her transport and strode towards the school, wiping the moisture from her breastbone with her silk scarf.

She entered the school, and found her girls standing amidst a throng of eerily subdued children waiting to be rescued. Cassidy and Caroline dashed fitfully towards their mother, throwing disinterested waves over their shoulders at a frazzled, middle-aged woman who dutifully stroked her pen across a clipboard. Miranda nodded her thanks towards the flustered woman, stowed a girl under each arm, and set off once more into the streets.

Twenty minutes later, two very shaken children and their anxious mother crossed the threshold from disaster into the familiar; the safe, quiet sanctuary of the 73rd street townhouse. As the twins stampeded up the stairs, Miranda shrugged off her jacket, unrealised tension uncoiling from her shoulders.

A smile ghosted across her lips as she retrieved the neglected school bags from the foyer, stowing them carefully at the bottom of the front closet.

The walk had been-- trying; Miranda navigated around the worst of the carnage, attempting to spare her children's eyes the gruesome aftermath of- whatever the hell had happened. Briefly, the editor had contemplated blindfolding them, leading them in innocence, making a game of it. Soon, though, a quiet realisation of her children's intelligence, their lack of naivety, prevented such trickery from taking place. Besides which, news footage of the disaster was sure to be flooding homes around the world from every technological orifice; Miranda could not successfully invoke a house-wide media ban; multiple televisions, the laptops- even their cell phones were connected.

No- the thing to do now was to arrange the twins in the den, distract them with a film or games, and avoid answering uncomfortable questions for a long as possible.

_Goddamit. _She needed to call Greg- she needed to tell him that his daughters-

Miranda's hand flew to her mouth, and she sat heavily on the stairs, knees knocking together as she trembled. In her all-consuming terror that something would happen to her children before she could reach them, she hadn't spared a thought for their father.

Greg and Miranda had carried on amicably enough following their divorce; just after the girl's second birthday. Despite the rumours of infidelity pandered back and forth between New York's leading tabloids, the dissolution of their marriage had been internal; the arguments, the wounded glances; the silence. She couldn't think about this now- she couldn't go back there _now_-

Miranda's cell chirped from inside her nearby bag, and in an undignified scramble, knees bumping on the smooth hardwood, she retrieved her phone and mashed the 'talk' button with a shaking finger.

"Miranda? It's Greg, are the girls-

"They're fine," she breathed, leaning heavily against the maple newel post. "I've just brought them home from school."

The man on the other end released a whoosh of pent up worry. "Randi- are you-"

"Don't call me that," Miranda snapped, and thinking the better of it, sighed in quiet frustration. "I'll put the girls on." Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, Miranda cocked her head sideways and looked up the looping flights of stairs. "Cass, Caro- your father is on the phone!"

Miranda met the descending twins on the third floor landing and handed off her cell, turning once more down the stairs. Almost as an afterthought, she looked back over her shoulder.

"I'm making coco," she stated blandly.

Caroline's eyes widened. "Marshmallows?"

Miranda's eyes flickered between the disbelieving faces of her children, their unwavering blue gaze full of innocent hope. She nodded; continued down the stairs.

In the kitchen, organic milk was put in a saucepan to heat, it's bathing companion a stick of cinnamon; sweetly warming the room as she searched for the canister of Dutch cacao powder, the box of cane sugar. Did she have marshmallows? Miranda considered, briefly, that in this instance, even she was not above looting the local convenience store. She was salvaged by a hazy recollection of Cara, the girl's nanny, introducing the plebeian fare into the pantry several weeks before; the girls had wanted to make squares to bring into class.

Whimsically, Miranda poured the dark liquid from the saucepan into three large mugs; heaped soft, sugary pillows into two of them before adding to the third; the hot milk gratefully enveloped the donation, swelling with pride, overflowing the rim. A quick finger wiped the side of the mug, travelled to parted lips. Miranda smiled.

"Did you find the marshmallows?" Caroline inquired, plopping onto a barstool. Their mother gestured proudly towards the steaming mugs.

"Excellent," Cassidy admired, settling on the stool nearest her mother, eagerly accepting her drink.

"It's hot, baby," Miranda admonished, handing over another mug and sitting beside her daughter. Caroline rolled her eyes.

"Hot chocolate usually is, Mom," the girl quipped from across the island, though she sipped at the drink mindfully.

"Dad's okay," Cassidy offered suddenly, "Grandma, too." Miranda nodded, she didn't want to think about this now.

Across the counter, Caroline poked at a marshmallow which was threatening escape. "I- we're glad you're okay Mom. We were so scared."

Cassidy nodded; grabbed her mother's hand tightly. A lump invaded the editor's throat; she searched her child's face, and smiled.

The desire to reach out and wipe the chocolate from the sides of her daughter's mouth was quelled; it wasn't hurting anyone; she looked so guileless, sitting there with dark coco gathered rebelliously in the corners of her light, soft lips.

"I'm glad you're okay, too." She offered a wobbly smile. "My girls."

* * *

_Kalokairi: 7:18:34_

Donna stirred, peeling back her sticky, dusty hair from her face and neck, the latex paint pulling at wisps like a band aid. Her body ached, a dull pain in her temple throbbed along with her heartbeat; shallow, irregular. She squinted, the large patio umbrella only partially shading her face from the amber glare of the sun, lowering in the darkening sky.

Hushed whispers hung in the air, a miasma of pity; conspiracy. Donna squirmed away from the cool cloth being pressed to her forehead, the fractured, surreal images of her broken husband clawing greedily into her awareness.

She struggled, wobbled off the lounge, staggering towards the villa, towards her bedroom. Agathe, fussing, shadowed her employer, murmuring about washing, tending wounds. The blond dismissed her with a limp wave, and lurched up the stairs. But Agathe was persistent; responsibility a forceful companion. Her old knees ached as she followed the younger woman up, finally put off when Donna growled a feral "_Leave it_," before retreating into her room and slamming the door.

She turned the lock, fell onto the bed; covered her head with a brightly printed pillow. Time passed, as was it's habit- the sun bathed itself in the Aegean waters; Donna drifted, unable to sleep. She reeked of oil, of iron and melting plastic, but couldn't bring herself to mind, to wash the vestiges of her husband's blood from her body. It had only been hours ago that she had kissed him, sent him off to the docks to receive the evening shipment of produce.

A persistent knocking crashed into the memory; Donna flinched and pressed the pillow tightly against her face. The knocking continued.

"Donna-" a disembodied voice floated through the locked door. "Donna- the phone. It's Sophia."

_Sophie_.

Donna clambered from the bed to the vanity, grabbing the receiver, swallowing guilt.

"Soph?" Her mother's voice sounded hoarse, small, tinny over the long distance connection. "Baby- where are you?"

"Ottawa," Sophie offered carefully, "we were on a bus."

"Oh god-" Donna moaned, pressing a hand over her eyes. "Are you hurt? Where's Skye- is he with you? _Jesus_ honey-"

"Mom, I'm fine, we're fine. Skye broke his arm- we're in the hospital now, waiting for a doctor. This place is a nuthouse."

Donna sank to the floor, pulling the phone into her lap; her breathing short, low. She would not live it down, the disgusting shame that her daughter had slipped from her mind. She sobbed against the cool plastic.

Sophie panicked, shifting nervously on the vinyl settee in the waiting room. "Mom? What is it?" She asked then, the question her mother could not bear to answer. "Where's Sam?"

Donna choked, she couldn't _do_ this.

"Mom?"

Donna shuddered; wiped carelessly at her running nose. "He's gone, baby."

Sophie sat, stunned- the long miles between them seemed to fold, to pile up on one another into an insurmountable obstacle.

"I don't know what to say," the young woman whispered unevenly. "I'm so sorry."

"Come home."

Sophie sighed, her growing frustration with the situation apparent. "Mom- I can't. No one is flying- over eight hundred planes crashed in North American airspace alone, and nobody knows how long it's gonna' take before they open the airlines again."

Donna nodded, which equated to little more than a disturbing silence at Sophie's end of the line.

"Look," her daughter began softly, "I'm going to get a hold of Tanya and Rosie- unless you've already spoken with them-"

Donna's guilt coiled tighter. "No."

Sophie's heart balked at the confession- it had been hours since the blackout.

"Rosie is in Italy, I think- with Bill," she offered. "Something about a cookbook. I'm going to see if she can come down there, they've still got the boat, as far as I know."

Donna made an indiscernible sound; fading fast.

"Mom?"

"I love you, sweetheart," her mother offered suddenly.

"I love you, too." With regret, Sophie flipped her cell closed and stared up at the speckled tile ceiling of the waiting room.

Several thousand miles away, Donna slid the receiver back into it's cradle before slumping further against the drawers of the rickety vanity. Secure in the knowledge that her daughter was safe, being looked after, there was little else to hold her fraying string to reality.

During the next two days, Donna moved from the floor, to the bed, to the large armchair which sat near the balcony window, facing the sea. She rose only to use the washroom, but even those small quests were decreasing in frequency; she'd had nothing to eat or drink- save a cursory mouthful of tap water- since she'd locked herself away eighty-two hours prior.

Donna received one other call from Sophie; the two MIA Dynamos confirmed safe and well. Rosie and Bill had been sharing a quiet deck side supper; Tanya had lost consciousness on a massage table, blissfully unawares she had even blacked out until the startled commotion in reception roused her.

On the third day of her descent, a reoccurrence of insistent banging threatened once more to interrupt her miserable solitude. Donna ignored it, and continued to stare at the sea; the forlorn cry of the gulls an etude of companionable disquiet.

The knocking continued.

"Donna- open this _sodding_ door!" Rosie, then. Donna turned her face into the sticky shoulder of her shirt, otherwise unmoving. "Don? Sweetheart- let me in!"

In the upstairs hallway, a short british woman hoofed the wall in frustration. As far as Rosie knew, no one had laid eyes on the Villa's owner since the evening of the blackout; all of Donna's previous avoidance issues combined fell short in comparison; this was _wrong._

The banging had stopped, though a scraping, shuffling noise, incongruous with the shrieking gulls, eked it's presence into the silence. Rosie, with an indelicate grunt, hauled herself over the wrought iron rail of the small balcony, leaning against the warm metal for support.

Donna was a singular catastrophe in the otherwise orderly bedroom; lank blond hair barely visible under a congealed marriage of paint, dust; blood. Her favourite Pink Floyd t-shirt and much bemoaned dungarees had suffered a similar fate; even from several feet away the smell of her was sour.

Flustered, Rosie cleared her throat, buried her shock- not that Donna had even acknowledged her presence- and approached her friend slowly; as one might a rabid animal.

"Don, lovey?" The brit crouched down at the other woman's knees, taking a limp hand in her own. Donna flinched, the burn on her palm still fresh. "Oh, honey-" Rosie murmured, glancing at the rude, red blisters. "What _happened_?"

Donna looked down at her friend, her band mate, the woman who had offered a hand to squeeze at the birth of her fatherless child; the woman who gazed up at her now with such understanding silence. She slipped from the chair into waiting arms

Rosie held her until some of the bitter tension left the blond woman's body. "Honey- I'll hold you for as long as it takes- but you've got to have a shower lovey, you smell like a camel."

Donna remained unphased by the remark, so Rosie pulled her to a stand and navigated her bodily into the bathroom, forcing her into the brightly tiled shower; wrenching the uncooperative tap.

As the steam rose, Donna was gently coaxed out of the filthy remnants of her clothing; small hands meticulously scrubbed at her skin and hair, mindful of the dark bruising along a delicate spine. As Donna watched the flecks of turquoise mingle with greying suds, all of it flowing as one down the drain, she began to cry.

It was an awful absence of sound, her mouth parted in a silent plea, her naked body tensed and shaking; she pulled at the tangled strands of her long hair; fingers trapped in knots; golden strands snapping under the assault.

Rosie bit her lip, but with a matronly fuss she soothed the tearing hands away and pulled Donna from beneath the streaming showerhead; wrapped the trembling body in a blue chinoise robe. Ignorant of her own wet clothing, the brit directed her friend towards the bed, pulled her down; curled around her tightly from behind. In as much as Rosie was trying to offer comfort, she was more aware of the fact that she was trying physically to hold Donna Sheridan together. She wouldn't let her come apart.

* * *

_A 73rd Street Townhouse, October 7th, 2:37:54_

_-believe that because of the state of the hippocampus, the activity we've observed directly relates to that of the 'waking' state, and the complete synchronicity of the event, down to corroborating stories with identical dates and time-_

Miranda flicked the television off and levelled a glare at Nigel. "Satisfied?" Nigel blinked, and the editor sighed testily. "You would think, for all that the United States vehemently professes it's unequalled scientific aptitude, that _someone_ would have some kind of concrete evidence as to what caused the blackout. Honestly," she continued, disdainful fingers poised in a refined air quote pantomime, "a 'temporal anomaly in global consciousness'? Who in god's name are we as taxpayers funding_,_ to provide us with such enlightening segments of egomaniacal _tripe_?"

Nigel shrugged obtusely, ghosting a palm over his balding head. There wasn't a right answer to that question. "What are you going to do about Lyla?" The second assistant had been struck by a careening car, indeed on the return trip from a latte-fetching excursion.

"Well- obviously I'm not going to fire her. Though," Miranda continued pensively, "I'll have to have Madeleine find a temporary replacement. God only knows how long it's going to take the girl to recuperate, and I need two fully functioning assistants if we're going to meet deadline."

Miranda wondered if Emily, who had been shipped off into training in the art department, would be willing to suffer a temporary demotion. She could almost imagine the look of horror on the brit's face.

"The point," Miranda stated, tapping the end of her pen against the coiled wire binding of the Book, lost briefly in thought. "The point is-

"Is there a point to this, Miranda?" Nigel interrupted. "Because I'm not sure re-shooting the _Lacoste_ ad is going to be high on anyone's priority list in the foreseeable future."

Miranda twisted the cap on the end of the pen; the sound like a strangled call in the quiet of the living room. "Why?" she countered softly. "In the event that, whatever happened, happens again, and we all die?"

"In crudest terms."

"If it happens, it happens." Miranda rolled her head, the stress in her neck aching down across her shoulders. "If it doesn't," she sighed, circling an offensive type face on the mock up page, "I still have a magazine going to print in three weeks."

Nigel's undoubtedly cutting retort was stopped short by the door chime, which echoed plaintively in the quiet house. Miranda glanced curiously towards the hallway, but the art director seemed unsurprised by the interruption; he sported a guilty smile.

"It's Andy," he offered, then added quickly, "She got a hold of me this morning, wanted to make sure _we_ were all fine." Nigel affixed the editor with a pointed look, eyebrows raised. "She was scared for you, Miranda, so be nice."

Miranda glowered at his presumption, though she had to quell a relieved sigh that the young woman had survived the blackout. Unwilling as she was to admit it, even to herself, the editor had grown fond of her young protégé, before the girl had surreptitiously taken her leave in the thralls of Paris fashion week. So unprofessional.

Miranda stood in a singular lithe movement and stalked towards the door, her heels clacking harshly on the hardwood. Upon opening the door, the editor was immediately clobbered in a stranglehold by her former assistant.

Andy, as if suddenly surprised by her own audacity, pulled away quickly, awkwardness scrawled across her honest features. "Sorry-" she offered, shifting her weight from one stiletto suede boot to the other. "I was worried."

Miranda raised a brow in disbelief- though old suspicions of an ill-harboured attraction on the part of one Andrea Sachs reclaimed a large portion in the forefront of the editor's consciousness; strange little journalist.

"You're always," Andy's voice cracked, "you're always in that f-fucking _car_, going to meetings, or you could have been on a plane. And the girls- don't they leave school for private lessons sometimes? They could have been in traffic or something, and- well, I know I haven't seen you in months, and you probably don't want me to-

Miranda raised a silencing hand, though she was warmed by the girl's obvious concern, especially for that of her children. Andy sniffled and a fat tear tracked down her reddening cheek; god, she was embarrassed for coming here like this, throwing herself at the editor; her eyes welled.

"Andrea," Miranda admonished gently, yet she opened her arms in an uncharacteristic moment of compassion, and Andy leaned in gratefully. "I'm_ fine_- we're all fine-"

The young journalist sobbed into the older woman's shoulder, vaguely aware that she was probably wiping snot all over her ex-bosses silk Donna Karan blouse; and then, so mollified by the solid, very safe Miranda in her arms, flipped quickly into embarrassment anew.

Nigel, who had been watching the interaction with veiled interest from the entrance to the living room, choose that opportune moment to intercede.

"Nige," Andy grinned, grateful for the diversion, her eyes still red-rimmed and wet.

"Six," he countered, embracing the young woman.

Andy slapped the dapper man playfully on the arm. "Still a four, monsieur- don't be a jerk."

Miranda cleared her throat, interrupting their banter. Her front foyer was no place for a high school reunion.

"How's your family?" The inquiry sounded mundane enough, but in this context, Miranda realised that what she was really asking was if anyone had died.

Andrea relaxed visibly. "My mom and dad are fine- _god_, I've never been so glad that both my parents are such incorrigibly boring homebodies. My sister clocked herself on the head when she lost consciousness- minor concussion there-" the young woman paused, her face falling, she wilted visibly. "I uh, had a friend- well, she _was_ a friend- she was on the subway when it happened, so she- she didn't make it."

Miranda winced- she had been so lucky, as had Nigel. Awkwardly, the editor pressed a hand into the small of the young woman's back and directed into the living room. Andy settled carefully onto a long couch, Nigel in an armchair opposite, and Miranda, after intense deliberation, sat on the couch next to the young woman. As loathe as the editor was to encourage the journalist's emerging- and misguided- feelings, Miranda could not bring herself to be callous in this instance; the girl seemed to derive comfort from her presence.

Nigel leaned forwards and poured a cup of coffee from the french press set on the low table, and handed it to a grateful Andy who clutched the mug close to her chest, trying to settle her nerves.

Taking a sip of the appropriately scalding liquid, she relayed that Lily had not spoken to her in months, since before Paris.

"Everything sort of fell apart when Nate and I split up- even though we'd been best friends since we were kids. I was hoping-" she sighed. "I was hoping Lily would forgive me, with time- that we could try the friendship out again. Now-" Andy trailed off, staring into her coffee, the essential oils like a grease slick rainbow on the dark surface. Quality stuff.

She started when Miranda's hand slipped gently onto her knee, and stared at the anomaly for long seconds, before grabbing it gratefully.

"You've got us, Six," Nigel offered, subdued.

Miranda nodded her acquiescence, and Andy was inclined to believe them. During the blackout, the young journalist had found herself keeping a familiar late-night vigil, waiting for a particular book to be delivered into her expectant D&G bag.


	2. Chapter 2

_Kalokairi, October 10__th__, 9:58:02_

Donna was dreaming. Each time she fell asleep, a reel of images looped through her subconscious. She paid the taxi driver, leaving a generous tip, too eager to climb the stairs to the Townhouse to wait for change. He smiled gratefully; tipped his hat.

She walked down a hallway, dragged by the hands at the insistence of two young girls, who manhandled her onto a sofa; snuggled close. The gentle voice of a woman floated from behind, and a warm hand slid over her shoulder, caressing. Donna turned, pressing her face into the waiting curves of the woman standing beside her.

Donna groaned as she was torn from her sleep. Rosie, smirking, thrust a full plate of breakfast under her nose.

"I'm not hungry," the blond groused, and pulled the blankets over her head.

"And I'm not buying it." Rosie sat on the edge of the bed, her weight an almost comforting intrusion. "It's been over three days since you've eaten anything, Donna. You must be starving."

In response, Donna's stomach grumbled traitorously. She peered sceptically from under the covers at the over-generous breakfast.

"Roll over, cabbage," the brit commanded, "and have something to eat."

Donna wriggled underneath the coverlet, and leaned against the wicker headboard; cheese, fruit- a small mountain of flatbread. Unenthused, Donna grabbed a bowl of thick island yogurt; if she was going to be force fed, she certainly wasn't going to give in, entirely, by chewing anything.

"So," Rosie offered, grabbing a triangle of warm bread and munching on it thoughtfully. "I was thinking that it might be a good idea to get you off this rock for a break." Donna glowered at her, but Rosie continued, between mouthfuls. "I was thinking New York."

"New York?" That taxi cab had been quintessentially Big Apple.

Rosie nodded. "No one is going to be booking vacations any time soon, Don. Tanya's got the money to keep us, and" she continued, lining up her sights, "Ottawa isn't that far from New York. Sophie and Skye could take a bus down, only a few hours' trip, really."

Donna squinted at her friend accusingly. "Soph's already there, isn't she."

"Got in last night." Rosie grinned. "She called when you were sleeping."

The blond set the bowl of yogurt in her lap, and sighed. "Do I have a choice?" Donna asked, already knowing the answer.

"Well," the brit began practically. "You could drag your arse out of bed, hop a plane, and meet with your daughter in New York. Or," she continued, levelling a pointed look at her friend, "you could stay here, hide under the covers, and stagnate. What do you reckon?"

Donna sighed. "What day did you book the tickets for?"

"That's what I thought," Rosie replied, looking a little too pleased with herself. "We're flying out of Athens day after tomorrow."

Donna blanched. "Day after- _shit_ Rosie!" The blond discarded her breakfast entirely and almost fell flat on her face in her haste to evacuate the bed. "I've gotta' figure out who's looking after the Villa- all the staff have to be told, and you know, there's that freaking toilette in the second floor guest suite that's still all _fu_-

"Don," Rosie offered calmly. "_Chill_, Babe. Agathe and her husband will take care of the Villa, and Pepper will be looking after the maintenance work."

At the mention of the young man's name, Donna shrunk, ashamed; examined the chipping polish on her toenails. "Is he-"

"He's fine, luv- jumping to get back at work." Donna nodded, still interested in the floorboards. "Don't go there," Rosie warned, taking a hand in hers. "There isn't anything to feel guilty about, so quit serving yourself extra helpings, honey, because there isn't any room left on your plate."

Donna stared at her friend. The brit had no _idea _how large her plate actually was, or how high she could pile it.

_Athens International Airport, October 12__th__, 6:45:32_

Rosie dragged a dawdling Donna through the unnaturally empty airport, the blond still staggering under the irresponsibility of abandoning the Villa to the locals.

"I just need to call Agathe one more time and make sure she knows that the light in the outdoor bathroom burnt out and tha-

The brit snatched the cell from her friend's hand and stashed it in her purse. "Donna," she began, trying to keep her exasperation at a simmer. "My darling. It's all sorted. You've left the Villa in capable hands- and if we don't get on this plane in the next ten to seventeen seconds, it _will_ take off without us. And I'm not going to be the one to explain to _your_ daughter, why her mother didn't show up at JFK at the preordained time."

Donna glanced once, longingly, at Rosie's purse, and then, almost visibly, rearranged her priorities; the sting of having forgotten about her daughter after Sam's death still a bitter shadow.

She sighed. "Okay."

Once the two friends had boarded the jet, and settled into their seats, Rosie pulled a notebook from her bag, and chewing intermittently on the end of her pencil, began jotting down notes.

"What are you doing?" Donna asked, only half-interested; unnerved by the silence in the cabin.

"New book," the brit offered around the eraser end stuck in her mouth. "Apparently, it's going to be a big seller."

Donna raised an eyebrow. "That's what you saw?" It didn't seem fair that Rosie's flash forward would portend such a menial, if potentially lucrative, prospect; her own had been so confusing.

"It is," Rosie nodded, scribbling down the beginnings of a recipe. "What did you see?"

It was an innocent enough query- so why did Donna feel so guilty; so evasive?

"Nothing much," she replied offhandedly, though her blood pounded. "I was having dinner in a house I didn't recognize- there were a couple of kids there, little girls. It seemed all right." She didn't mention the woman, who's voice had sounded like a low, warm laugh; who smelled of peppery sweet perfume; who's silk blouse was soft against Donna's pressing body.

"Sounds lovely," Rosie offered distractedly.

_Lovely_. It had been that. Donna passed the rest of the long, transatlantic flight slipping in and out of fitful dreams, her head resting against the window.

_John F. Kennedy International Airport, October 12__th__, 12:10:23_

Donna groaned, and tried to shake some semblance of active nerve endings into her deadened legs as she grabbed for her carry-on and followed Rosie from the plane. It had been a twelve hour flight; the pilots, wary and most likely under career duress, had flown as if they were surrounded by a hurricane, despite the clear weather.

"Where do you think the baggage claim is?" asked Rosie, scanning the only marginally more populated American airport.

"How should I know?" Donna replied shortly, some of the feeling finally coming back into her legs. "I haven't been off Kalokairi in twenty years. You're the worldly traveller."

Rosie ignored her friend's curt comment in favour of finding their luggage, and twenty minutes later, the two walked through the arrival's gate, immediately spotting Tanya, Skye and Sophie in the deserted thoroughfare.

Sophie approached her mother almost shyly; the woman who had been on the other end of the two phone calls had sounded a different person. Now face to face, the girl didn't know what to do, what to say. Donna's pace was much the same as her daughter's; her steps slow and nervous; tentative.

The innkeeper suddenly felt a discreet shove from behind, and a murmured, _Oh, for god's sake. _Donna realised she was being ridiculous; this was her _child._ She began to run, closing the space between herself and Sophie quickly; she wrapped her girl in a crushing embrace, and Sophie relaxed into her mother's arms; this, at least, had not changed.

When Sophie started to make protesting noises of impending asphyxiation, Donna slackened her possessive grip and pulled back to look at her daughter; there was a huge scar running the entire length of the young woman's jaw line.

"_Jesus_- baby, you said you weren't hurt," Donna accused, grabbing Sophie's chin, turning her head this way and that, inspecting for other un-recounted injuries.

Sighing, Sophie managed to look a little repentant. "Mom- it's nothing. I didn't want to worry you."

"Nothing?" Donna balked, her voice rising. "Soph- the top of it's about half a hair away from your _eye_, for Christ's sake. You could've lo-

"Heya Donna." It was Skye. Sophie shot her fiancée a grateful glance.

"Hey, yourself," the maternal woman offered, pulling the young man to her. "Thank you for looking after my girl." She inspected his arm, plastered and pinned to his chest in a sling. "Quite the rig you've got there."

"It's all right," he conceded, glancing down. "Though it'll be much improved when it has the signatures of Donna and the Dynamos on it. What do you figure?"

Donna grinned for the first time since before the blackout; her unused muscles reminded her of the betrayal, and she schooled her features quickly. "Sounds manageable."

Tanya chose that moment to approach, the small family having had their reunion. "Look what the cat dragged in," she drawled, before her face broke into a wide smile. "Hey, babe."

"Thanks for putting us up, Tanya," the blond replied, hugging the lanky woman tightly.

Tanya offered a parting squeeze, and pulled back, her hands resting on her friend's shoulders. "Figured it was time somebody returned the favour."

Donna nodded, holding back another smile. "Should we get going?"

"Of course," the stylish woman replied, leading the group towards the exit. "You two must be jet lagged as all hell. As soon as we get home, you're both going to bed. You could use a few hours of beauty sleep, I'm sure."

"You would know, Tan," Rosie quipped jovially.

Tanya grinned, and fluffed her hair. "Shut up."

Donna shook her head of the quickly renewed antics of her two best friends as they all exited the airport and climbed into the well-off woman's undoubtedly swanky car, complete with driver.

"You've got a chauffeur now, Tanya?" Rosie teased. "Does he do dry-cleaning, too?"

Tanya blinked. "Of course not." Then, "That's Peter- he comes every second Tuesday."

Donna rolled her eyes and Rosie stifled a fit of bemused giggling with the back of her hand.

"What?" Tanya prodded. "You'd do the same, you brat, if anything you wore was _worth_ dry cleaning."

The brit slapped her friend playfully on the leg. "I hope you're not accusing me of being _jealous_. Though," she chuckled, "god knows, it would be nice to have someone else doing the laundry."

Donna, who was accustomed to her friends' not-so-gentle ribbing, allowed a brief look of contentment to pass across her features. The rest of the ride passed in companionable silence, each of the car's occupants lost in some private though; looking hungrily out the windows or reacquainting themselves with familiar faces.

A short while later, the car pulled up to a sleek high-rise, and Tanya led her guests nonchalantly through the gleaming lobby and into the elevator, which took the group to the lofty penthouse apartment.

Rosie was the first to voice her opinion on their new digs. "Bloody _hell_, Tanya," she gasped. "How do you afford this?"

"Quadruple alimony," the serial monogamist replied blandly. "Never let it be said that I didn't marry _well, _even if I didn't marry smart."

While Sophie and Skye, already familiar with the penthouse's layout, took the women's luggage to their respective rooms, Rosie began poking inquisitively around the kitchen; a curious frown creasing her brow as she spun full circle, noting the prominent wine cooler, which stood in dark contrast amidst the rest of the seamless, indecipherable cabinetry.

"Do you actually have any food in this place?" she huffed. "I can't even find the refrigerator."

Tanya moved into the kitchen, and pull open a nondescript door, which as it happened, was actually a built in fridge. "I'm not completely incompetent." she groused, and moved over to the smaller cooler and retrieved a chilled bottle from it's depths.

"You're well-stocked," Rosie approved, her assessment of the refrigerator's contents quick and ruthless. "I'll make lunch for us all. What do you fancy?" Tanya shrugged, engrossed in uncorking the wine. "Donna?" the brit prompted. Despite her best efforts, she'd barely been able to cajole her friend into eating more than a few cursory bites of whatever she'd prepared.

"Whatever you like, hun." She yawned. "I think I'm gonna' hit the sack- I'm bagged."

"It's twelve thirty in the afternoon," Tanya whined. "And you just got here."

Donna shrugged, and moved towards the hallway. "Not by my clock. It's seven-thirty 'Donna' time, and that flight was less than relaxing."

Tanya shot a pleading look at Rosie, who gave her a look which clearly asked her to _leave it_.

"I'm waking you up for dinner." The brit called the warning after the retreating Donna, who paused, looked over her shoulder, and nodded once before disappearing down the hallway.

"What was _that_," Tanya accused once their friend was out of earshot.

"Tanya," she chastised harshly. "The woman has just lost her husband. I practically had to drag her onto the plane this morning." Rosie sighed, softening at her friend's abused expression. "You should have seen her, Tan- when I got there. Three days she sat alone in that room, still covered in Sam's blood. I- I shouldn't say this, but I really thought we might lose her. As it is," she continued, taking a restorative sip of the wine her hostess had poured, "I can barely get her to eat anything, and she refuses to talk about what happened. This is going to take time, luv."

Tanya sighed and looked intensely at the light, golden liquid in her glass, as if she could somehow divine a solution; the bubbles rising slowly, to gather along the surface, offered no answers. The New Yorker glanced over at her friend. "We've got time."

_Elias-Clarke Building, November 6__th__, 7:15:46_

_Caffeine, _Miranda complained silently, fingers kneading her temples. _I need caffeine._

It had only been one week since _Runway_- as much as was possible, given the circumstances- resumed it's usual business. The November issue had barely made the stands, and the pitifully edition was a testament to just how slowly the city of New York was lurching towards recovery. Now, with only three weeks until the December issue was due to go to print, the editor in chief was wildly scrambling to return her magazine to it's previous standard of excellence. She was uneasy, and frustrated; Miranda Priestly did not _scramble_.

The editor gazed distractedly at the proofs littering the usually pristine surface of her sleek, glass desktop. Lacombe's work was quality, the photo's evocative; but they had lost weeks of work, and given the current climate of the city, Miranda found that the work she now had at her fingertips was off; the tone was off.

She sighed, exhaling through her nose, and removed her glasses to wipe distractedly at the lenses, which weren't actually dirty. Her ire with the photography situation deepening, she swiped the proofs into a messy pile beside the vase of fresh, sweetly scented calla lilies, and slouched gracefully into her high backed leather office chair; if she didn't have a latte in her hand within the next five minutes, she mused, she might, quite dramatically, slip into a caffeine-withdrawal induced coma. Whoever Nigel had approved as her replacement assistant was certainly taking her sweet _fucking_ time.

As if summoned by Miranda's growing dissatisfaction- which had reached critical- a lanky brunette traipsed into the office, coffee's in hand, blowing hair out of her face as she sped towards the editor with the beverage that would possibly spare her measly life.

Miranda stared. _This wasn't happening_.

"Hi Miranda," Andy offered quickly, and frazzled, set the latte on the desk.

The editor stared at it as though the take-out cup had suddenly morphed arms and legs and had begun doing the Charleston on her desk; she then looked at Andy in much the same fashion. _You've got to be kidding me._

Andy frowned. "You were expecting someone else, I take it?" Miranda continued to stare at her as if a horn was growing out of the journalist's forehead. "Nigel didn't tell you."

The editor found her voice. "Obviously."

The young woman's heart fell at the chill in her former employer's tone. Hell- she hadn't been expecting Miranda to fall all over herself; conversely, she hadn't expected the object of her misplaced affections to be so _pissed_, either. Although, 'pissed' was generally Miranda's default.

"Nigel figured it would be okay," Andy offered, beginning to feel intensely stupid. "But if you don't want me here, I can-

Miranda cut off the intended guilt trip. "What happened to your job at the Mirror?"

Andy chewed her lip. _I just wanted to be near you._ "I wanted to help you out. It's only temporary, right?"

The older woman grabbed her latte; her desperation for caffeine having increased tenfold at the sight of it's deliverer. "You didn't answer my question."

The journalist riled. "Should I have to? I'm available, I'm here, and if that's a prob-

"_Andrea_," Miranda warned. "If you are attempting to endear me to the prospect of your reinstated employment within this magazine, I _suggest_ that you modify your tone."

Honestly, who did the girl think she was- showing up here, telling _her_ off for asking a simple question; a question she certainly had a right to ask, given the fact that Miranda had most likely gotten her the job in the first place; giving her a recommendation instead of black-listing her in New York's publishing sphere.

Andy dialled it back a notch. "look," she began quietly. "I'm taking a hiatus from the _Mirror_. Writing has been difficult- well, impossible, really- and I just wanted something familiar. Something I know I can do well. And, like I said, I wanted to help you out."

Miranda sighed. When she had said she wanted to be there for the young woman, she had _not_ envisioned the young woman interpreting that it somehow meant Miranda wanted her to be _here_. Yet, once more, the editor found herself succumbing to a compassionate, if somewhat unrealistic, compulsion to give Any a break.

_God_, she was really going soft. Maybe it was time for her to start thinking about retirement.

The journalist was cringing at the myriad of unpleasant expressions parading across the older woman's face.

_Then again, _she smirked, _maybe not_.

"Get Lacombe on the phone, make sure she's ready to start re-shooting the spread for the December issue. Then get me Patrick, for reasons unbeknownst to me, Demarchelier has decided his line isn't ready for preview next week, so god knows it's been left to me to stroke his already over inflated ego. That's all."

Andrea blinked, nodded once, and turned inexpertly in her reinstated Jimmy Choos, smiling as she hurried back to her desk.

Everyone seemed to be talking about the possibility of 'changing the future', ever since that FBI agent had thrown himself from the height of the bureau's Los Angeles' office roof in his possibly misguided attempt to spare the life of an innocent woman he'd not even met yet-

And for a terrifying moment, Andy had wondered if by back-talking La Priestly, she'd managed to do the same; a different kind of death; career suicide. But, it seemed to Andy as she sat behind the familiar desk, the fates were locked in her particular case.

Andrea sat comfortably, making the requisite calls and connections, but came to a full stop mid-conversation with Brigitte Lacombe when the chairman himself entered the main office of _Runway_ and strode purposefully past the assistant's desk into Miranda's inner sanctum; without pause, without introduction. He closed the door behind him.

"Good morning Miranda." His tone was jovial which, more often than not, meant he was about to make things difficult.

"Irv," Miranda offered curtly, sliding her glasses down her nose for the sole purpose of glaring at the little egomaniac over the rims.

He smiled benignly. "I have a favour to ask of you."

_A favour?_ Irv Ravitz didn't ask favours. He commanded- at least, he tried to. More often than not his impotently executed directives were side-stepped, reformatted, or all out ignored; most especially by Miranda Priestly.

The editor in chief allowed a gracefully sculpted eyebrow to ascend towards the swooping silver forelock. "And that is?"

Irv sat, his pompous ass the first in years to acquaint itself to one of the two ill-used chairs flanking the business end of _La_ Priestly's long, slim desk. The little toad continued to smile, and Miranda had to quite forcibly resist rolling her eyes, settling instead for a sip of the quickly cooling latte; already half-way to tepid.

"How long has it been since _Runway_ hosted a benefit?"

Miranda frowned. "The first of October," she recounted quickly. "We hosted the breast cancer awareness benefit at the Guggenheim. Is there a point to this?"

Irv inspected the garish onyx ring adorning his left ring finger. "The board of Elias-Clark would like to organize a benefit for victims of the blackout. And," he looked at her pointedly, "as the editor in chief of EC's flagship publication, I want you to plan and host the event." He paused, almost sure he'd seen the woman across from him sink a little further into her chair under the weight of the added responsibility. "You've got class, Miranda. It's legendary. You need to do this thing."

Miranda had indeed wilted slightly, the added burden of a benefit, coupled with her harried race to improve the falling quality of the magazine; it didn't seem at all possible, she would be stretched too thinly.

"No one can do what I do," she murmured half to herself, resignation setting her jaw tight. Miranda pushed her glasses back up her nose. "Was that all, Irv?"

The chairman clasped the chrome arms of the chair in which he sat, launching himself to his feet, a grin wide on his face. "Thank you, Miranda. The board would like the date to be set no later than the second of December." He nodded cordially, and headed for the door. As Irv moved to cross the threshold to the outer office, he turned in afterthought. Miranda glanced up, half her attention already focused back on the photographs littering her desk.

"Yes?"

Irv smiled again. "It's going to need a name; the benefit. Something meaningful, but not too flashy." And with that, he was gone.

_Flashy? _Miranda groused silently. _Since when did _I_ do flashy?_

_Elias-Clarke Building, November 6__th__, 7:23:46_

Andy watched curiously as a very satisfied Irv Ravitz waltzed out of Runway's central office, a fuming Miranda in his wake. She hovered near the edge of her assistant's desk, the toe of her shoe tapping lightly against the floor, revealing her impatience.

"Andréa."

The young woman cringed. During her tenure at the Mirror, Andy had slowly forgotten how much the mispronunciation of her name irked. Initially, the exotic interpretation had seemed a gracious gift, compared with the thoughtlessly tossed out _Emily's_ of her earlier days. However, as the months drew on, each time Miranda called her 'name', Andy wanted to crawl under her desk and sulk. Once, in a fit of suicidal brilliance, the second assistant had even considered writing her name down on a tag, phonetically correct; plastering it to her chest. She resisted.

"Andréa…" Miranda didn't sound impressed. But then, neither was Andy.

The young woman gazed out from under a shock of dark hair, and prepared to deal.

"Irv has taken it upon himself to, very generously, gift me with the responsibility of hosting a benefit at the beginning of December, to raise funds for New York victims of the blackout. Now-" Miranda affixed her assistant with a glare, "you are not to mention this to anyone, but at this point, I cannot possibly hope to devote the required level of attention to planning such an event; the magazine would suffer. I want you to take this on, in my stead."

Andrea tried to be flattered by the trust Miranda was exhibiting, but it was difficult, under the circumstances; this was a massive leap in her responsibilities as an assistant, one she would not likely see appropriate financial compensation for- and beyond that, she wasn't sure her currently shattered self-confidence was up to the task. Andy thought forlornly back to the afternoon at Miranda's townhouse, just one day after the blackout; the closeness, the comfort.

Andrea had thought, perhaps stupidly, that she had been freed of her attraction to Miranda after leaving the woman in the lurch during Paris fashion week; such was not the case. When the blackout had struck, the young woman's first thoughts, of course, had been about her family. Closely following, however, was a deep fear that something could have happened to her former employer, and barring that, the older woman's children.

Directly after assuring the safety of her parents and sister, a distraught Andy had contacted Nigel, openly begged him to tell her Miranda was okay. Her relief had brought her to tears, and Nigel, who had long suspected that the plucky little writer had a 'thing' for the Dragon Lady, had mentioned he was going to see the woman in question later the next day. That was when he arranged the meeting at the editor's townhouse. That was when Andy had jumped into Miranda's arms like an ill-trained dog. And that was when Andy Sachs realised she had a serious problem.

She wanted Miranda Priestly.

So, she had leapt at Nigel's suggestion to temp for the injured Lyla, hoping that somehow just being nearer Miranda would be enough. All Andrea had wanted- no, _needed_- was to be closer to Miranda; fetch coffee, run errands. And now this, business as usual.

The journalist realised she must have been sitting there, dumbly, for quite some time, when-

"Andréa."

"Don't _call_ me that," she snapped, before she could think better of it.

Miranda actually looked taken aback by the bright flare of the younger woman's short fuse going off. She said nothing. Andy didn't look like she was finished.

"You've known me for over _two_ years Miranda," the journalist qualified, dark eyes flashing. "You've heard dozens of people say my name the way it's meant to be said, hundreds of times. And yet you keep calling me 'Ahn-drey-ah' like I'm some sort of freakin' french mermaid or something. I know my name isn't exotic, or particularly pretty- but as I can't see you calling me 'Andy' like anyone else who gives a _shit_ about my feelings, the least you could do is say my name properly. Or isn't it good enough for you?"

_Breathe_, Miranda told herself firmly. Andy's less than tacit outburst had, predictably, provoked a tsunami of indignant rage in the editor; all her fur was rubbed the wrong way, and it was taking an inhuman amount of repression to quell her instinct to hiss, to unsheathe her claws. Andrea had lost a friend in the blackout; she was shaken, distraught. Allowances had to be made. And beyond that, Miranda realised, there was an uncomfortable kernel of truth in the disrespectful diatribe. She sighed.

"My office," she directed shortly. "Now."

Andy stood weakly; the anger having fled, certain she was about to be fired, or worse.

"Sit," Miranda offered, gesturing towards the small charcoal sofa. She closed the door.

Andy was nearly squirming with discomfort. "Miranda, I-

"No, no-" the editor interrupted calmly. "You've had your little soliloquy. It's my turn." Miranda rounded on the young woman, hands at her hips, and thinking better of it, sat on the couch. It wouldn't do to have this conversation, stalking around like a wildcat on speed. Andy stared at her, mouth slightly agape.

"You should know," the older woman began quietly, "that I don't suffer disrespect; being sworn at in my own office." Andy nodded, and became particularly interested in her lap. "That being said," Miranda continued, her voice gentle, "I'm sorry. I didn't realise it bothered you."

Andy's head snapped up, her large eyes bright with confusion. She back-peddled furiously. "It doesn't so much- not really. I've just been so _tired._ I can't sleep since Lily- since she-

Miranda held up a silent hand, staving off the guilt ridden excuses. "Don't lie to me. You voiced an opinion, albeit crudely- so stand your ground." _Grow a backbone_, she almost added, but it sounded unduly harsh, even in the space of her acerbic mind. "I've apologised, a feat only my daughters have had the pleasure of accomplishing." She sighed, brushed her sweeping silver bangs away from here eyes. "And as I see it, you have two options. You can either accept my apology and give me a second chance. Or," she smirked, "you can offer up a final 'fuck you' and remove yourself from my office. I, personally, would prefer the former."

Andrea sat, stunned, unmoving. Hearing the expletive uttered amidst Miranda's usual eloquent turn of phrase had been strangely delicious. Never mind the blatant admittance of a mistake made. It occurred to her she should probably offer a response at some point.

"Me too."

Miranda smiled. As in full on, apoplexy-inducing _smiled_. "Do you prefer 'Andy' or 'An-_dree_-ah'?"

The journalist blinked. The editor's expression was currently wreaking havoc on several of her baser senses. "Taking your abhorrence for nicknames into account," she began with a cheeky grin, "we'll start with Andrea. Maybe 'Andy' is something to look forward to. By the way," she added more solemnly, "I'm sorry I swore at you."

"Consider it forgotten," Miranda offered, though slightly perplexed by the girl's choice of words. _Something to look forward to?_ The editor was aware of the younger woman's attachment to her; aware in the sense that one would realise the blossoming affectations of a full blown crush. That was an uncomfortable conversation for another time. "And, you can absolve your deplorable language by taking on the arrangements for the benefit."

Andrea grimaced.

"Stop whinging," Miranda commanded softly. "I have absolute faith in your ability to meet my expectations, and I invoke the precedent of a certain impossible manuscript as proof of your competence." The older woman stood from the couch and habitually adjusted the wide leather belt hugging her waist. "I'll expect updates on your progress, and," she added, a wry smile colouring her eyes an endearing shade of cyan, "you'll need to come up with a name for the whole thing. I'm sure there are still echoes of wordsmithian aplomb rattling around in that pretty little head of yours, so come up with something brilliant."

"That's all?" Andy teased boldly. To her delight, Miranda replied with a warm peal of laughter.

"No, actually, it isn't. I am in desperate need of a replacement latte. The one you brought earlier slipped from tepid to frigid somewhere in the middle of Irv's grovelling declarations of my legendary classiness."

Andy snorted. "Your wish is my command, oh classy one." With a flourishing bow, she exited the office.

Satisfied with the execution of her- albeit rusty- conflict resolution skills, Miranda reinstituted herself behind the glass desk in her office, still smirking at Andrea's hammed-up departure. Perhaps Nigel was as smart as he looked.

Suddenly, Andy rushed back into Miranda's office, having been gone no more than twenty seconds.

_Perhaps not_.

"Are you lost?" the older woman asked, partially annoyed, but mostly amused.

Andy shook her head, silky bangs mussing over her eyes. "What about 'Beacon'?" she queried breathlessly.

Miranda digested the suggestion for a split second before nodding; then she smiled. A thrillingly succinct approval; the only smile on record since the famous stand-alone given to Tom Ford in 2001.

Andy grinned in reply, far too pleased with herself to school her features. Then she frowned. She had a name for the event; fine. But she had nothing else; nothing, and only three weeks to find a venue, hire musicians, design the interior of the space…

Andrea, without a word, tore out of the office.

_A New York Penthouse, December 1__st__, 3:11:49_

Donna gazed into the floor length mirror disinterestedly, sandwiched between her has-been backup girls; no amount of grousing, it seemed, was going to get her out of this.

"I think this one's lovely," offered Rosie, moving behind the blond to pull the fabric of the dress closer to her friend's body. Donna had lost weight; she hadn't been eating much, and the brit felt her own part in that failure keenly. "What do you think, sweetheart?"

Donna squinted at her reflection, she looked sallow and worn; she didn't recognize the woman in the mirror. "It's fine, I guess," she commented listlessly. "I'm still not sure why you're dragging me along to this thing. I won't fit in there, and I'm certainly not in the mood to be gallivanting around a gala with a bunch of snobs."

Rosie shared a worried look with Tanya, and the lanky woman threw an arm around Donna's shoulders almost boisterously. "It'll do you good to get out, honey. You've been holed up here, barely speaking to anyone, for over a month." Tanya gentled her tone. "It's not healthy."

Donna sighed, and tossed the gown she had been holding in front of herself on the nearby bed. She was losing this battle. "I don't see the point of even attending this thing," she tried, valiantly, to secure her release. "It's a fundraiser, isn't it?"

Tanya nodded, not sure where Donna was leading the conversation.

"Well," Donna continued shortly. "I don't have any_ funds_ for them to _raise_, now do I? I'm completely broke, living out of your home like some hobo. You're already paying for my admission to this thing, and there is _no_ way I'd be able to bid on anything in the silent auction. So," she queried, railing against this misplaced sense of duty, "I repeat. What's the point?"

Rosie sensed the coiling tension between her friends, and stepped in diplomatically. "The point, lovey, is that we're worried about you." Donna waved off the admission, but the short haired woman wasn't deterred. "Tanya is right. You've been hiding out. And while it's understandable- we both know how much you loved Sam- it's been almost two months." Rosie wrapped her arms around Donna's waist affectionately. "We love you, and we know you're struggling. But you can't stay in bed for the rest of your life, honey. Besides," she continued, feeling her friend lean back into her, "this _thing_ isn't just about the money. It's a memorial to those who were lost; a display of solidarity, if you like. We don't want to force you into doing something you don't want to do but," she gave Donna a gentle squeeze, "this evening might be good for you. It might help."

Donna, conceding defeat, turned in the short woman's arms and leaned forwards to bump foreheads with her cajoling friend. "You should have been a lawyer."

Rosie snorted, kissing the other woman soundly on the cheek. "A vegetarian lawyer? That's practically an oxymoron."

Forcing a weak smile, Donna grabbed the deep turquoise gown off of Rosie's bed and evacuated. In passing, she saw Sophie standing in her own room in front of the mirrored closet doors, evaluating outfits. At the moment, the young woman held a white, strapless cocktail number in front of her slight form, and a disinterested Skye shot Donna a helpless little look when he caught her standing in the doorway.

She shook her head, and didn't have to extort the small smile that curved her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

The Beacon Benefit, December 1st, 7:45:32

_Miranda paced expectantly through the poignantly bedecked event hall of New York's Metropolitan Museum. For the first time in however many years, the editor in chief of Runway_, dressed in a shimmering platinum hued gown, had deigned to arrive hours before her quintessential, fashionably-late-standard. In fact, she'd entered the venue before the event had even gotten underway, and the first guests were only now beginning to trickle into the space.

Andrea had entirely overcome her initial insecurities, surpassing even Miranda's best hopes of what the young woman was capable of. Tacitly, the editor had mentioned her satisfaction to the younger woman, who had blushed profusely before scurrying off, mumbling something about a sound check for the podium microphone.

Miranda stood now in the centre of the hall, the ethereal lighting blessing her presence with an ivory glow; a kind of beacon in her own right. She smiled.

The grand architecture of the museum was accentuated by large, low contrast black and white photographs. The prints, which were framed by the building's large windows, depicted mundane city scenes; a couple walking through central park, a young woman dashing across a busy street, an old street vendor foisting mystery meat onto unsuspecting tourists; comforting snapshots, intimate portraits of New York's lifelines.

From the centre of the hall hung a large installation of glass globes, each illuminated by a small, spherical bulb; the effect was that of a sort of ghostly cloud, hovering low from the ceiling, imparting a soft illumination, a murmur of those lost, a reminder of those spared.

Miranda made a note to inquire after the artist.

People were beginning to file in through the large double doors, their frantic chatter falling under a blanket of calm; the atmosphere not oppressive, but one of quiet respect. And they kept coming in, a steady flow; for it seemed, like Miranda, everyone had abandoned tasteful tardiness for another time, a more frivolous venue. Then, the initial hush having befallen the crowd began to lift, and conversation filtered through the air.

As Miranda began to mill through the throng, greeting those she met with rare, genuine smiles, the soft, mellow tones of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue lilted over the thrum of human voices. Miranda turned to look at the small ensemble ensconced between two indomitable stone pillars, and catching the eye of a flautist, nodded her thanks.

The music itself had been a point of contention between herself and Andrea; the young woman had wanted to have something sombre playing. But Miranda had shot the bleeding heart of her assistant through quickly with her ever famous, brooks-no-argument 'No.' The tone, she said, the ambient backdrop for such an important event, was integral to delivering the correct message.

"No funereal dirges," Miranda had commented fervently, when presented with Andrea's potential play list for the benefit, insisting that the music should be something that spoke of rebuilding, of vitality.

This was the only point during the planning in which Miranda had 'intervened', and of course, she had triumphed.

Now, instrumental renditions of classically _New York_ melodies advocated a sense of looking forwards; the vibrato of a lone violinist; the clear, pure tones of a muted trumpet; a chorus of breathy flutes. And despite Andrea's originally abysmal choice of score material, it was not lost on Miranda that her assistant had somehow managed to finagle Itzhak Pearlman himself into playing at _Runway's_ soiree.

The tide of incoming guests had begun to ebb, and now people were moving in swirling currents, pooling leisurely around the large glass display cases housing the items up for auction; the silent affair had been another of Andrea's ingenious schemes, and Miranda had been astounded by the near stampede of designers who had pounced on the opportunity to donate items for the fundraising effort.

Miranda had been considering making several large contributions in favour of a few of the more outstanding lots, when the presence of a woman not six metres away struck her so strongly with recognition, the editor hardly dared breathe. A woman, _her _woman, was poised indignantly in front of a striking garnet cocktail dress, eying Valentino's contribution to the silent auction with ill-disguised scepticism. At first glance, the woman looked- Miranda struggled to surpass the clichés, and finding herself at a loss, settled on _breathtaking_. The blond was wearing, however impossible it seemed, a stunning Vera Wang dress in a turquoise so rich it could almost be called topaz; the neckline plunged and revealed delicately curved shoulders, one of which was the recipient of a cascade of curled, golden hair which tumbled down from an elaborately twisted side-sweep. However, as the editor surreptitiously approached the vision of her future, she noticed that beneath the couture and the flawlessly applied make-up, the woman looked tired, haggard; her cheekbones too pronounced, the laugh lines around her eyes turned pinched, deeper with sleepless nights.

Unbidden, images from Miranda's flash forward taunted her with the contented smile and healthier appearance of her personal muse, and overcome with the phantom sensations of the warm body pressed so trustingly to her own, the editor found her footsteps drawing her inexorably nearer the wraith-like woman, pausing a few feet away to continue her unlikely pursual.

Miranda gazed covertly at the woman, her guise a subtle interest in the Valentino gown. The editor warred with herself. What was she doing, sidling up this woman like a sociopathic puppy; stealing clandestine glances around the tuxedoed shoulders of a tall man; furtively peering around the poorly contained chest of his wife, or perhaps, his mistress. Miranda contained a small snort of ironic amusement. She was La_ fucking_ Priestly; this was _her_ shindig. And yet- here she was, nervous as anything, trying fitfully to avoid doing precisely what her heart wanted her to do.

The flash forwards were quickly become fact in the minds of the masses, but Miranda was loathe to submit herself to fate; a faith, no longer blind. But here was the woman, coincidence or not; Miranda had not gone looking for her vision, but she had found her.

Unawares of their crucial contribution to Miranda's evasive manoeuvring, the couple filling the space between the hostess and her fixation moved on to the next lot. The editor, still lost in her acerbic inner diatribe, did not notice their abandonment.

"Hey there," Donna offered, seeing a silver gilt woman standing awkwardly off to her left, staring blankly in her general direction.

Miranda started, glanced tentatively over her shoulder, and seeing no one else the woman could be talking to, fixed the blond with a dubious smile.

Donna gunned her fingers in Miranda's direction, singling her out as the object of her casual greeting. "My name's Donna."

Grasping for her quickly slipping mantel of refined indifference, Miranda moved forwards and offered a welcoming hand, which Donna clasped warmly. "Miranda," the editor offered gently. "What do you think of the Valentino?"

The other woman gave a cursory glance in the direction of the gown. "It's stunning," Donna offered half-heartedly. "I couldn't pull it off, though." What she meant, however, was that there was no way in hell she could _afford_ to pull it off.

Miranda gave the dress in question an appraising look, and gazed back at the woman beside her. "Of course you could," she offered emphatically. "You've the shoulders for it."

Donna wrinkled her nose, and the editor was hard-pressed to find the expression anything but adorable. "Are you in fashion, or something?"

Miranda passed a few delicate fingers in front of her lips to disguise her growing smirk of amusement. "Or something," she offered obtusely.

Donna nodded, her focus back on the glass-encased item. "To be frank," she offered wittily, "I wouldn't know what's in style if crept up behind me and bit me on the ass. My friend forced me out to this event because, apparently, I was 'stagnating'. She had to dress me, too, for fear I would've shown up in a pair of dungarees and a straw hat."

Miranda grinned. She couldn't stop herself. "The Vera Wang is a stunning colour on you- your friend has taste."

Donna bit her lip and shot the other woman a perplexed expression, one eyebrow raised endearingly. "Vera _who_?"

Miranda tried, really _tried_ not to laugh, but Donna's blissful and refreshing ignorance of the couture scene reminded her so fondly of overhearing Andrea's conversation with the D&G rep, asking them if they could please spell 'Gabbana', that the editor of the world's leading fashion magazine couldn't help herself _giggling_.

Donna shot the older woman an affronted glare, but her scowl quickly softened in the face of her unlikely companion's infectious peals of laughter.

"Sorry," Miranda chuckled, regaining control. "It's nice to be reminded, occasionally, that the entire world doesn't necessarily revolve around what we put on our backs. But," she added, her features transforming into an epic version of her 'die cretin' glare, "don't you dare tell anyone I said that."

Donna snorted irreverently at the editor's current expression, though she was beginning to suspect that the woman she was holding conference with wasn't just another of the event's many guests. "Are you a designer?" Donna queried guilelessly.

Miranda paused. It had come to this, already. Was she ready for Donna to meet the editrix; was she ready to frighten this engaging creature off already? The other woman's intelligence was obvious; if she lied now, Donna would know. Somehow.

"I'm actually an editor," Miranda offered as nonchalantly as she could.

Donna nodded, and then narrowed her eyes. "_An_ editor?" she gazed in wonder at the elegantly bedecked hall of the Met; at the _Runway_ name which seemed to appear now in neon lights, though actually small and quite modest relative to the word 'Beacon' on the large banner capping the podium. Hadn't Tanya mentioned that the editor of _Runway_ was hosting this event? "As in, _the_ editor?"

Miranda forced back a wince and instead, offered a guilty smile. Her jig was officially up. "That would be me, yes. Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of American _Runway_."

Donna regarded the other woman disapprovingly, and for a moment Miranda wondered if she hadn't blown it already. The blond smiled wryly. "You might've introduced yourself a little better the first time around, don't you think?"

"I don't usually have to introduce myself at all," the editor qualified. "It was," she paused, searching, her fingers itched to run nervously through her waved silver locks. "It's a rare moment when I don't have to pretend to be anyone but 'Miranda'. Anyway," she continued abruptly, desperate to shift the focus from herself, from her uncomfortable admission. "Did you come with anyone? You mentioned a friend, but is your poor husband wandering lost among the couture?"

Any warmth which had been growing in Donna's eyes seemed to flicker, then vanish; like a mirage when one approached it too closely; the woman seemed to wither and shrink inside her gown.

Shaking, Donna bit her lip, squeezed her reddening eyes tight against an embarrassing onslaught of tears, and finally had to muffle a treacherous whimper with a hand clamped painfully tight across her mouth.

Miranda watched, frozen in a kind of terrified stasis, as Donna wordlessly bolted from the crowded hall. _Fuck_.

The editor called out once after the hastily retreating woman, and then, as if waking from a dream, realised where she was, _who_ she was, and why she couldn't afford to go on some Cinderella-inspired footrace after the fleeing Donna.

Miranda surveyed the exit forlornly before resignedly turning away, only to be confronted by a tall, slim woman wearing a Jane Taylor Lotus hat, and a shorter, much angrier looking woman with spunky hair.

"What did you do to her?" accused the latter, her spiky coiffure seeming to stand on end.

The lotus hat woman winced, glared at her comrade in arms, and turned appealingly towards Miranda. "You'll have to please excuse my friend, Ms. Priestly- what she _meant_ by that was, is everything alright?"

"You must be the friends Donna mentioned," Miranda said, extending her hand cordially. "And call me Miranda."

"Tanya," the tall woman offered, clasping the proffered hand. "And," she added, risking a glance at the still fuming brit, "the bristling porcupine behind me is Rosie. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miranda."

Miranda nodded distractedly, and hazarded another glance towards the exit. Donna was nowhere to be seen.

Rosie, impatient and protective, stepped forwards, hands on her hips. "What did you say to her?"

"I'm not entirely sure," the editor sighed, focusing her waning attention on the simmering woman. "We were talking, I inquired as to whether or not her husband was with her, and th-

"Oh christ," Rosie drawled, looking heavenwards. The mild expletive earned her a smart jab from a very pointy elbow. "Sorry," the brit added unrepentantly.

Miranda was becoming more confused by the second, a state to which she was unaccustomed, and had very little patience with. "_What_?" she queried shortly, her temper flaring.

Tanya looked at Miranda, then at Rosie, who shrugged noncommittally and gestured back at the silver-haired woman, as if to say _this is your party, princess._ Tanya sighed heavily, and turned back to the editor. "Donna's husband was killed during the blackout," she offered simply.

"Oh christ," Miranda echoed faintly. "I'm sorry- I hadn't even thought-" she passed a weary hand across her eyes. "I _am _sorry. Will she be alright?"

Rosie, mollified by the woman's obvious remorse, lowered her hackles. "We forced her out to this thing, Miranda. It's as much our fault as yours, if we're going to pass the blame around. We're both of us hoping she'll come out the other side of this, but she's having a tough go of it, really." The brit inhaled deeply, and pushed her glasses back up her nose. "I can't get her to _eat_," she confessed, somewhat brokenly.

Miranda's gaze shifted between the two women; they obviously cared about Donna, and were just as obviously fiercely protective of her best interests. With Donna missing in action, Miranda realized she would have to go through them if she wanted to speak with the blond woman from her vision again. And, god help her, she did.

"Tanya," Miranda began, fixing the taller woman with her most sincere expression. "I think I've really shoved my Louboutin clad foot at least halfway down my throat this evening. Would it be possible for you to arrange a meeting between Donna and I? I'd like to apologize to her in person, and I'd consider it a personal favour if you would make it happen."

Tanya blinked. In the face of _the_ Miranda Priestly, she was loathe to protest, even despite the fact that Donna had likely already made it back to the penthouse and firmly rooted herself on the rooftop patio; her insomniac haunt of preference. Never mind the fact that the innkeeper cum houseguest would probably throttle her. "Tonight?" she inquired unevenly.

Miranda shook her head. "I'll be stuck here all evening," she gestured to the large crowd by way of explanation. "Do you think a lunch, tomorrow, would be possible?"

Tanya looked a Rosie, who seemed to have gone mute again. "I'll see what I can do," she offered, flashing a bright smile at the editor.

"Have you got a pen?" Miranda asked, suddenly wishing she hadn't given Madeleine the night off from her assistantly duties. Wordlessly, Rosie produce both pen and paper from a large bag she had slung over her shoulder, ever the writer. The editor scrawled her name and personal cell number across the scrap, and handed the note to Tanya, who stashed it in her small clutch.

"We'll say tomorrow," Miranda offered, smoothing invisible wrinkles in the flawless silk of her gown. "At Pastis. One o'clock. Please call if she won't be coming- I have my girls this weekend."

Tanya nodded solemnly, resisted the ridiculous urge to curtsy in front of the fashion maven, and offered a strangled 'goodbye' as Rosie dragged her off in search of their runaway friend.

Miranda allowed a small, private smile to pull at the corners of her mouth. She'd lost the unlikely princess, but she'd found something even better than a glass slipper.

With mammoth resolve, the editor continued through the rest of the benefit, made the requisite speeches, and at the end of the evening, all but collapsed into a chair near one of the large windows. Andy, equally, if not more exhausted, joined Miranda to congratulate the other woman on an event well-executed.

"It went well, I think," Andrea offered, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. She slumped a little in her chair next to the older woman.

Miranda nodded, distracted. "Who won the Valentino?"

Andy glanced at the clipboard in her lap, flipping quickly through the pages. "Some insurance high roller. Why?"

The editor narrowed her eyes. "Put me down for double what he bid," she instructed, avoiding the question.

Andrea gazed at her boss confusedly, and quailed under the resulting glare. She penned Miranda's name and bid in, crossing out the former winner.

Perhaps because she was tired, or maybe because Miranda had grown to trust the young woman, the editor deigned to explain herself. "I'm giving it to someone I met this evening," she began carefully.

Andy frowned, and tried to quell the unbecoming rise of jealousy in her throat. "That's generous of you."

Miranda grabbed an abandoned flute of champagne off a nearby table and tossed it back expertly. "During the blackout, I saw a woman. She was in my home, and the girls seemed to know her, and we," Miranda paused and glanced about for another glass of alcohol, coming up empty.

Andy was beginning to feel slightly nauseous. If Miranda were attracted to women, if Andy had somehow _missed_ her chance-

"Were you _with_ her?" the journalist asked suddenly. Miranda blanched. The silly girl had always been able to read her. Well, let Andrea read her now.

Andy couldn't believe it. Miranda's attraction to this mystery woman was scrawled with painful accuracy all over her crestfallen features. "Miranda?"

"I met her tonight," the editor offered quietly. "And I frightened her off. Because that's what I do, isn't it Andrea? I scare everyone away."

The younger woman bit her lip, her chest aching. "I came back."

Miranda look up from the empty glass she was still clutching in her lap, saw the miserable hurt in the younger woman's large, expressive eyes.

"I'm sorry, Andy," the older woman whispered sadly.

Andrea sniffled and wiped a straying tear before it slipped from her cheek. "Why?"

Miranda wanted to run. She wanted to hide under the nearest table and pretend she didn't have to have this conversation. But she owed Andrea more than that.

"Because I can read you, too, my girl. And I can feel what you want from me. And you have to know that it's not going to happen." Miranda sighed heavily. This was too much honesty to swallow. She continued. "I can't lie to you. I have been _with_ women, before. But you, Andrea," she looked at the younger woman then, saw her quaking in the chair. She took Andy's hand. "You're at such a different stage of your life. Do you understand?"

Andy nodded. She certainly couldn't speak; her mouth, firmly clamped shut, contained a sob waiting to escape.

"I don't want you to feel as if I'm treating you like a child," Miranda murmured. "You have been the most competent assistant I've ever had, and more than that, you've been a friend. And, against my better judgement, or perhaps because of it, I _have_ come to care about you. What I want to know," she squeezed the hand in hers, "is if a friendship between us is valuable enough for you to move past this, if you're able."

Andy regarded the older woman, shocked, heartbroken, terrified. In the last ten minutes, Miranda had given more of herself than she had in the two years the journalist had known her, and in a bittersweet, ironic, slap-in-the-face kind of way, it only made Andrea want her more.

But what did Andy expect? That Miranda would chuck caution into the nearest sewer grate in favour of shacking up with her twenty five year old assistant? And to be honest, what did Andy want at this point? To continue lusting after someone she couldn't have, or to man up and stay in the editor's life as her friend. If she thought hard about it, Andrea could rationalize her attraction, and in time, being Miranda's friend could really be enough.

Andrea thought again of her flash forward; waiting for the book, how content she had been. And suddenly, things looked like they might be okay.

Andy offered a wobbly smile. "We good?"

Miranda nodded, and in an uncharacteristic display of deplorable grammar, she replied in kind. "We're good."


	4. Chapter 4

_A New York Penthouse, December 2__nd__, 9:34:23_

"Please?" Tanya wheedled, setting her mug of coffee on the counter in favour of fiddling with the tie on her robe.

Donna shook her head fervently. "Not happening. I made enough of an idiot of myself last night- I really don't think I need another embarrassment-op, do you?"

Tanya sighed. "Miranda did _not_ think you were an idiot. In fact, she feels responsible, and she's really sorry about the whole thing. And she's worried."

"Worried?" Donna laughed disparagingly. "I'd been talking to the woman for five minutes. She doesn't even know me."

Tanya thought back to the previous evening, how strange Miranda had seemed in contrast to the few times she'd met the fashionista before. "Maybe she'd like to," Tanya countered quietly.

Donna examined her fingernails, a strange and somewhat guilty look on her face. Tanya knew she'd struck a nerve. "You think?" the blond murmured.

Tanya nodded. "She's Miranda Priestly, for god's sake. She doesn't do remorse, and she certainly never asks anyone out for lunch at Pastis as an apology, especially when she didn't _actually_ do anything wrong."

Donna blew a small cloud of steam away from her tea and took a tentative sip. "I don't think it's a good idea."

Tanya rolled her eyes, feeling frazzled. It wasn't in her best interest to try to force Donna Sheridan into anything, and really, she wasn't all that afraid of Miranda Priestly. But the uncanny _rightness _of the situation, the way Donna had smiled when she spoke to the editor at the benefit- because yes, Tanya had been tacitly keeping tabs on her friend from afar- Miranda seemed to be a strange sort of life raft, one Donna needed badly now.

"Donna," she admonished, "be practical. It's one lunch. It won't last long, and it seems to be really important to Miranda to apologize to you in person. I know you don't owe her anything, or me, for that matter- but it'd do Rosie and I good to see you socializing more. Will you please go?"

"Fine," Donna groused, more tired of arguing than she was genuinely concerned for some other woman's guilt. And maybe, some deeper part of herself admitted, she'd just been waiting for permission. She abandoned her tea and headed for the shower.

Tanya sighed in relief and began digging around in her large purse for her cell. Finding her phone, she then withdrew Miranda's hastily scrawled number out from the pocket of her robe, took a deep breath, and dialled the number. It rang once. Twice.

"Hello, mom's cell phone!"

"Don't say _that_, retard!"

Tanya blinked, and checked the sent number on the screen of her phone. It matched the note, but then, Miranda's handwriting _was_ abysmal.

"_Caroline Amanda Priestly_- do _not_ call your sister a 'retard'."

Tanya snorted as the cell noisily exchanged hands.

"Hello?" a familiar voice drifted down the line.

"Miranda?" Tanya asked, the grin evident in her tone. The editor sounded much the same as any mother. Annoyed, and underneath that, fond beyond reason.

"Sorry," Miranda offered emphatically, her voice warming. "I should know by now not to leave my phone lying just anywhere. Those two are incorrigible."

"Not to worry," the brunette replied. "I've just spoken with Donna, the two of you are on for lunch."

On the other end of the phone, Miranda smiled. She'd been suffering from an uncharacteristic attack of nerves since she'd woken up at four in the morning, wondering if Tanya would be able to cajole her friend into the meeting.

"How is she?" the editor asked, pulling absently at her left earring.

Tanya glanced surreptitiously around, and thought she heard the shower running. "Her pride is a little delicate this morning, but she seems to be fine. At least," she added quietly, "as fine as she's been. Rosie and I would be really grateful if you could tempt her into eating something."

On the other end of the line, Miranda held her breath. What was she possibly thinking, getting herself into this situation. The woman in her vision had been _fine; _Donna had been fine. This waif, this broken creature- did Tanya realise what she was doing, placing her friend in the care of Miranda Priestly? The editor almost laughed at the outrageousness of the situation.

And yet- she wanted to try.

"I'll see what I can do, Tanya. That's a-" _christ Miranda_, the editor shouted inwardly. _Behave. _"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," the other woman said cryptically. "I'll make sure she's on time. Goodbye, Miranda."

"À Bientôt," the editor replied whimsically, and snapped her cell closed, laughing. Then she caught a view of herself in one of the townhouse's many mirrors; her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. She scoffed at her excitement. What in god's name was she giggling at?

Miranda collected herself and tricked the latch on her platinum watch to check the time. _Ten after eleven_. Taking traffic into account, and her penchant for showing up fifteen minutes early to everything, the editor quickly calculated that she had an hour to prepare herself for lunch at Pastis.

Miranda was rarely one to agonize over her appearance, despite several of the more outlandish rumours floating among the staff. She woke, she showered, and based on a loose conglomeration of the weather, and how she was feeling on any given morning, she quickly intuited an outfit.

So when, forty minutes later, the editor found herself aimlessly wandering through her expansive walk-in, clad only in her matching La Perla bra and panties, she began, more than a little, to panic.

Grumbling, she pulled another blouse off the rack, this one a cranberry silk with a flatteringly high collar. But it was wrong. It was too…_sexy librarian._ She turfed the shirt on top of the ever growing pile of rejected clothing, her bed barely visible underneath the small mountain which offered no hope of ever transforming into a viable outfit.

"Fuck," she cursed quietly, her inner trucker making an audible appearance. Miranda was glad the girls were several floors up, engrossed deeply in a game of checkers.

What was going on- why was this suddenly so difficult?

The last time Miranda had suffered such an extreme bout of self-induced, fashion-related incompetence, she had been preparing for one of the first dates she'd ever taken with Greg, the girl's father. And that had been thirteen years ago.

Miranda sighed. So that was it.

"This isn't a _date_," she chastised aloud, glaring at an unoffending cashmere sweater.

She and Donna had only just met, and frankly, given Miranda's disastrous- albeit unintentional- misstep from the previous evening, the editor wasn't even sure the woman particularly _liked_ her. And added to that was Tanya's obtuse warning, _Don't thank me yet. _Now what the _fuck_ was that supposed to mean, anyway?

Miranda didn't have to think particularly hard about it- she was too clever, too adept at reading others. Donna had obviously been coerced into agreement. Again. And Miranda knew she was getting ahead of herself.

But it was nearly impossible not to; her flash forward had seen to that. Miranda felt as though she'd read the end of the book before the beginning, and was now impatiently trying to live out the bits in between.

She blew her now less-than-immaculate bangs out of her eyes and surveyed the mess of couture littering her down-filled coverlet. Did it even matter? Probably not, Miranda told herself, and selected a coral-red skirt from the pile, along with a cream blouse, finely printed in aqua- and wouldn't the fitted Chanel jacket in that espresso suede add a lovely, casual contrast?

centre-II-/centre

Donna stepped into the swanky Bistro, anxiously smoothing the dark fabric of her new trouser-cut jeans down her thighs. After she'd exited the shower, Tanya had appeared brandishing several hangers of clothing, which had mysteriously made their way into Donna's closet earlier that week.

In actual fact, Tanya had stealthily been exchanging Donna's frumpy island wardrobe for a more 'New York' style from the moment the rural innkeeper had divulged the somewhat meagre contents of her army surplus duffle bag.

Donna felt like an oversized Barbie doll- and given her lack of appetite since losing her husband, she was also well on her way to looking like one.

She sighed heavily, and approached the smartly dressed host at the entrance to the dining room.

He smiled benignly at her. "Miranda is expecting you. Please, follow me."

Donna narrowed her eyes at the man, wondering at the strange situation of having been described, in what must have been acute detail, to a complete stranger; she felt as if she'd been summoned by the Don of an infamous mob circuit.

"Here we are," the maitre d' announced genially, gesturing to a secluded booth at the rear of the restaurant.

Donna peered around the curved wall, half expecting to find the editor, seated regally while stroking the soft fur of a white Persian. But Miranda sat, sans feline accomplice, absently running her fingers through her own silvery hair.

Noting her guest's entrance, Miranda slipped from the booth, and extended her hand towards Donna, a shy smile curling her lips.

"Hi," she offered quietly, opting for a more casual greeting. "I'm glad you could make it."

Donna clasped the other woman's hand warily, and said nothing. _I didn't have much of a choice_, ran sharply through her mind, but the blond wasn't stupid or rude enough to voice that particular thought.

Affronted, and feeling ironically jilted by Donna's ignorance, Miranda retreated awkwardly to her seat. Donna, her conscience roiling at the brief look of hurt which had flashed through the editor's slate eyes, slid in the opposite end of the semi-circular booth, and stared blankly at the menu.

Forty-five dollars for a salad, the innkeeper mused. This experience, already strange, was fast on it's way to blatant surrealism. She'd been invited- no, _subpoenaed- _to the court of fashion's high queen; the setting, an upscale restaurant. She was there to be the recipient of an 'apology', which in all likelihood would take less than thirty seconds, and then- _really_- what would they talk about?

Miranda also glanced, unseeing, at her menu. She already had the thing memorized; she ate at Pastis twice a week on average. So what was she doing- thinking long and hard about how she would sell every pair of her shoes on eBay in exchange for the ability to read Donna's mind.

Wincing inwardly at the inexorable expression of displeasure on the blonds' face, Miranda found herself unable to launch into her carefully constructed apology, opting instead to stall with trivial- and in her opinion- completely ridiculous small talk.

"So," Miranda offered awkwardly, remembering her promise to Tanya, "what do you feel like eating?"

Donna shrugged and made a great, if completely ineffective show, of examining the lunch specials. "The lamb sounds good," she murmured, zeroing in on something familiar.

The editor cursed silently as a waiter chose that exact moment to intercept her blossoming, if mundane conversation with the other woman.

"Something to drink, ladies?" he queried, dolling out a wine list.

"You know what I like," Miranda responded somewhat quixotically. To her delight, Donna smirked.

The young man nodded smartly, and turned towards Miranda's guest. "Et vous, mademoiselle?"

Donna looked at the editor helplessly. "Any ideas?"

"The Bordeaux," Miranda replied confidently. "It's a blend of merlot and cabernet, and the tannins in the wine give it a good structure which will hold up to the gamey flavour of the lamb. Also," she added as Donna gaped, "it tastes slightly of cherries. It'll compliment the rosemary jus that accompanies the dish."

Donna glanced at the waiter, who was grinning shamelessly with amusement. She then looked back towards Miranda, who endearingly seemed to be wearing much the same expression.

"You're a wino-" the blond accused humorously. "You know that?"

"I'm a bit of a vintage snob," Miranda admitted guilelessly. "I spend half of my working week stuck in deplorably dull working meals with haughty, self-obsessed designers. To distract myself from their ego-centric babbling, I read the wine lists. I could give any sommelier worth his title a bloody good run for his money."

Donna smiled, and quirked an eyebrow at the editor's suddenly british speech affectation. Their conversation remained fairly derisive until their meals arrived, and when each woman had begun to pick lightly at their food, Miranda felt like enough ease had formed between them to broach her apology.

Exiting the booth gracefully, the editor retrieved the garment bag she had stashed beneath her coat and walked to Donna's side of the table. The blond frowned, confused, but Miranda stayed her query with a softly raised hand.

"I saw you admiring this yesterday evening," the older woman began as she unzipped the bag carefully. "And I wanted to give it to you as a sort of apology. All the proceeds from last night's auction are being donated to various charities throughout the city and, well, I put your name down with mine for this donation."

Miranda removed the Valentino from it's protective sheath and offered the gown towards Donna, who continued to gape at the dress.

What on earth was Miranda doing- the apology itself hadn't even been necessary- and now this dress? Donna actually shuddered to think how much the editor had paid for it.

"You _really _shouldn't have," the innkeeper exclaimed, wringing the napkin in her lap.

Miranda frowned. "Do you not like it?"

Donna shrugged, angered by the other woman's obtuse behaviour. "That's not the point! I don't understand what would make you think that _this_," she jabbed at the gown, "was a good idea."

Miranda pursed her lips, though whether it was displeasure with Donna- or with herself- that caused the action, she didn't know.

"I'm not sure I'm clear on why you're so upse-

Donna snorted derisively. "You're not? I'm not some token charity case for you to shower extravagant gifts on, _Ms. Priestly_."

"I'm sorry I didn't lose anyone, then," Miranda countered acidly. "Maybe my apology would seem more sincere if one or both of my daughters had died in the event."

Donna was speechless. Miranda was fuming. All of the editor's well-laid plans were going spectacularly down the toilet.

Turfing the dress onto the seat negligently, Miranda motioned curtly to the nearest server, and instructed the young woman to put the meal on her tab.

"It was lovely to see you again, Donna," the editor sniped coldly as she draped her coat over her shoulder and stalked from the Bistro.

Donna stared after the woman, mouth hanging open, shaking in the wake of Miranda Priestly's icy fury.

With a self-conscious glance in the waiter's direction- the young woman offered an apologetic smile- Donna waffled for a moment before stashing the Valentino back in it's bag and hastily exiting Pastis.

She arrived home ten minutes later, and still clutching the garment bag to her chest, snuck through the living room of the condo to hide outside on one of the large lounge chairs furnishing Tanya's rooftop patio. The last fucking thing she needed after her disastrous lunch with Miranda was to relive the entire thing again for the benefit of her nosy, interfering friends.

_Elias-Clarke Building, December 4__th__, 10:22:36_

Miranda sad rigidly at her desk, massaging her temples, and wondering somewhat desperately if she could get away with cancelling her lunch meeting with Donatella. Her head was attempting, with unrivalled success, to make her waking life a painful, throbbing misery, and had been since her failed peace offering at Pastis three days prior.

All this buzz about the future, of whether or not static events could be altered by actions, was now making the editor queasy with worry; Miranda had so obviously influenced her own future, for the worse, and -if Donna's indignant anger had been any indication- irreparably.

The editor drove the tips of her fingers hard into her aching skull, smirking bitterly at the memory of having nearly thrown her cell from the town car that morning; an attempt to forcibly stop herself from calling the woman from her vision. She'd sat on her hands instead.

Biting her lip, thankful no one could see her, Miranda continued to stare blankly at the wall-space above her sofa, starting guiltily when the phone in the outer office began demandingly to trill. Perhaps, if there was a god, Donatella would spare her and cancel lunch first.

Andy, who had as usual been suffering the brunt of the wrath Miranda's sour mood precipitated, forced a smile on to her face and snatched the receiver from it's ill-acquainted mate.

"Good morning," she chirped. "Miranda Priestly's office."

"Hi there," came a tentative voice. "I'm Donna Sheridan."

Andy choked on her coffee, narrowly avoiding spraying the scalding liquid out her nose; the dark liquid dribbled down her chin instead.

"Jeeze," Donna exclaimed, hearing the coughing fit on the other end of the line. "Are you okay?"

Andy wheezed for a moment, and took the opportunity to mop up the puddle of coffee spreading across her appointment book with a tissue. "Sorry," she gasped. "Coffee went down the wrong pipe. What can I do for you?"

Donna yanked the coiled cord of the phone tight, and let go, letting it spring back towards the wall. "Is Miranda in the office right now?"

Andy leaned cautiously forwards, and peered around the doorway leading into the editor's office. Miranda was still sitting behind her desk, clearly under the pretext of reading a budget report.

"I'm- uh- I'm not sure she's available _right now_-" the young woman stammered inexpertly. Andy lied on Miranda's behalf all the time- but in this case, she wasn't sure the editor would want her to.

"Look," Donna began plaintively. "If she's in there- which, judging by your awkward stuttering, she _is_- I really need to speak with her. She and I had lunch on Sunday- well," she admitted frankly, "we _ordered_ lunch on Sunday, and I was less than polite. Not that she was particularly smooth, either," the blond rambled, "but I really think I owe her an apology. So," Donna huffed nervously. "Is she in, or not?"

Andy couldn't help the small, somewhat devious smile creeping across her face. If she couldn't be with Miranda, she could certainly indulge in a little _harmless_ matchmaking.

"You're good to come up, hun," Andy offered quietly, one eye on the tempestuous editor, who thank god still seemed to be orbiting somewhere out by Pluto. "Though if I were you, I'd detour into the Starbucks on the corner and pick her up a triple grande, not-fat, no foam, centre-of-the-sun _hot_ latte. Those things make excellent peace offerings."

Donna nodded into her cell phone- she could see the Starbucks from where she was standing at the foot of the Elias-Clarke high-rise. "Thanks," she breathed gratefully. It was easy enough for Miranda to summon the innkeeper into her lofty presence, but Donna was pretty sure that little trick didn't work both ways. She'd be lucky enough, on her own, to make it a foot inside the halls of _Runway_ without being escorted straight back the way she came by security. It wasn't as if she fit in there. Not hardly.

Nerves slightly mollified by her unlikely success, Donna headed into the coffee shop and approached the counter.

"Good morning!" the barista sang, slamming the cash drawer shut and leaning pluckily over the counter.

_Holy customer service, batman_. Donna grimaced more than she smiled, and tried to remember the convoluted beverages specs the young receptionist had given her.

"I-uh- shoot. I need some kind of latte."

The barista blinked. "You're going to have to be a _little_ more specific than that."

Donna glanced heavenwards for inspiration, and the young server stared at her amusedly. "It's got three of something in it- shots- and it has to be, uh…centre of the sun hot."

The barista grinned knowingly. "Is this latte, by any chance, for Miranda Priestly?"

Donna frowned bemusedly, and assessed the young woman through squinted eyes. "I don't want to know _why_ you know that, do I? And could you add a regular black coffee to the order please?"

The young woman made a harassed face as she rang the coffee in. "The woman lives off of caffeine, and we're the closest Starbucks to _Runway_. I think we must make at least five of these drinks a day, for a total of fifteen shots of espresso. And that's only when she's _in _the office."

"It explains so much," Donna commented derisively as she handed over a tenner. Anyone who drank that much coffee had to be wired on a permanent basis.

The young woman grinned. "You aren't her new assistant, are you?"

Donna shook her head evasively. "More of a new…acquaintance."

The barista snorted as she handed the blond back her change. "Miranda Priestly has friends?"

"Be nice," the older woman admonished hypocritically as she pocketed the change and moved to pick up the drinks.

After scorching the scarred tissue on her left hand and proffering a beverage tray, the innkeeper made her way back to the Elias-Clarke building, and after collecting her visitor pass from security, entered the elevator and ascended to the seventeenth floor.

The doors chimed coolly, and slid open to reveal the glassy, chic halls of _Runway_. Looking left, then to the right, Donna noticed a slim, well-dressed young woman with gleaming chestnut hair hurrying to meet her.

"Hi," Andy smiled warmly. "You must be Donna. Did you have any trouble getting the coffee order out?"

The older woman smiled ruefully. "You could say that. Thankfully, those Starbucks employees seem to possess mind reading skills far surpassing those of Madam Manikas, our little island's fortune teller. I got halfway through fumbling out the order when the girl behind the counter knew I was picking up a latte for Miranda Priestly."

Andy nodded. "She's got us all well-trained."

"And you don't find that a little demeaning?" Donna countered, handing the black coffee to the young woman, who frowned.

"Thanks," she offered, taking a sip of the drink. "And no. Miranda is just… Miranda. You want to work for her, you want to be in her life- you have to understand that there aren't many things that Miranda'll just settle for."

"I think," Donna began pensively, "that every difficult person, even Miranda Priestly, has the capacity for compromise."

Andy raised an eyebrow at the older woman's naivety. "Maybe. Although," she continued, leading Donna around a divide in the hallway, "You may want to hold back on testing that theory until Miranda's in a better mood. She's been vile to everyone all week."

Donna nodded her understanding. "That's probably my doing. We'll see what a little heartfelt grovelling can accomplish."

Andy stopped mid stride, and looked pointedly at her charge. "Not that it's any of my business- but what exactly did you say that pissed her off so much?"

The older woman worried her bottom lip between reprimanding teeth. "I _might _have insinuated that I thought she gave me the dress because she was being condescending and shallow."

Andy winced. Trust Donna to hit the one and only nerve that would send Miranda flying out of Pastis like a hormonal teenager. "Do you still feel that way?"

"I don't know," the blond replied, twisting a tortured strand of hair around her fingers. "I don't think so."

"Can I offer some insight?" the assistant queried. Donna nodded. "I've known Miranda for two years, and I've had ample opportunity to observe her at her best, and at her worst. Miranda is," Andy paused, searching for the right words, "Miranda is complicated. And divided. Inside these hallways, as _Runway_'s editor in chief, she's fierce. She doesn't suffer mistakes. Outside of the office, when she's with her children, or with someone she trusts- she's different. I mean," Andy giggled ironically, "she doesn't morph into the fairy godmother out of Cinderella or something. But she's got a heart, and she cares. And she has a great capacity for kindness. She didn't give you the dress because she was trying to mock you or belittle you in some way.

A Valentino gown, in Miranda's eyes, isn't just some expensive dress. It's fine art- a piece of the designer's soul. And okay," Andy rolled her eyes. "It was an extravagant gift. But Miranda doesn't know you very well, and that dress was her only 'in'. And frankly, Miranda is loaded. In fact, she's been well-off for so long I think she forgets the value of her own money." Andy paused to let all of her revelations sink in.

"She _did_ tell you all the cash from the silent auction is going to charity, including her bid?"

Donna nodded.

"And did she also tell you that she put your name down with hers as the benefactors concerning the Valentino?"

"She might have mentioned something like that," Donna conceded guiltily. "But I was too busy being an asshole to let it sink in."

The two women continued to walk in silence until _Runway_'s main office came into view.

"Any more insights to offer up before I go in there?" Donna whispered as Andy opened the door.

"Tread lightly, approach with caution, and don't let her see how nervous you are," Andrea offered quietly.

Donna repressed a snort. "You make her sound like a temperamental wildcat."

The younger woman raised her eyebrows with significance, and didn't speak again. Instead, in a move Emily would have been proud of, Andrea gestured pointedly towards Miranda's office, and promptly barricaded herself behind her desk.

With one longing glance in the direction of the exit, Donna took a deep breath, and stepped through the doors to Miranda's office.

The editor, who lounged in the chair behind her desk, staring at the screen of her laptop with no apparent interest, looked up when the blond cleared her throat awkwardly.

"Hi," Donna beamed, hoping her smiled at least _looked_ more natural than it felt. "I brought you a coffee."

Miranda took the cup from the other woman's hand, brushing her fingers deliberately over Donna's, eliciting the desired gasp of surprise. She took a sip of coffee, smiling in surprise when the familiar flavour of her anal-retentive latte hit her tongue.

"How did you-

Donna gestured over her shoulder with a hitched thumb.

"Conspiracy," Miranda began, genuinely warmed by the fact that Andrea had arranged this, despite her own feelings. "In my own office. I should fire her."

"You're kidding, aren't you," Donna asked mildly.

Miranda smirked. "It's hard to tell, isn't it?"

The blond regarded the editor bemusedly. "Are you always this obtuse? Or do I get special treatment?"

The silver-haired woman cradled the latte to her chest and leaned back in her chair, eyes glittering. "Both."

Donna started visibly. She had the distinct impression that Miranda was- _flirting with her_? She shook her head. _Nah_. "So," the innkeeper began, "I didn't mean to interrupt, but-

Miranda held up her hands. "You're not interrupting. In fact, I'm glad you came. I think I owe you another apology."

"Let me," Donna offered as the editor sipped at her latte. "You're not very good at them, anyways."

Miranda's stomach threatened to fall into her shoes until she dared to look up and saw Donna's cheeky grin. "You have no idea how lucky you are that _I_ can tell when _you're_ kidding."

The blond nodded and sank into the nearest chair facing the editor's desk. Frankly, the furniture was getting more action in the last month than it had in the five years since it had been put in the office. "Look," Donna began, "all the cute joking aside, I really do owe you the apology this time around. I didn't mean to insinuate that you were being thoughtless or condescending, and I certainly didn't mean for you to think that I would want anything bad to have happened to your children. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. _Shit_," she cursed, yanking on her low braid. "I just don't accept pity very well."

"This isn't pity," Miranda clarified gently. "I empathize with your situation, and- I enjoyed our conversation the other night at the benefit, and at lunch, before I shot it all to hell with what seems to be a recurring case of foot in mouth disease."

Donna smiled shyly. "You did?"

The editor nodded slowly. "It felt like the first time in years I was actually speaking to someone who didn't _want_ something from me. All of my adult relationships are somehow connected with work, and frankly, as much as I love my daughters- twelve year olds don't make the best confidants sometimes."

"So what do you want from this- from me?" Donna asked, confused.

Miranda sighed- her desire to be honest with this woman was quickly becoming a bad habit. "I don't know. I like talking to you. You make me feel…real, I suppose."

Donna decided to keep quiet, knowing on some level that the admission had cost the other woman in some way.

"Do you want to try dinner later this week?" Miranda asked suddenly. "I hear the third time is the charm."

Donna shook her head, and the editor's lungs felt as though they'd deflated. "I don't sit still very well," the blond clarified quickly, seeing the somewhat distraught lines creasing around Miranda's eyes. "How do you feel about going for a walk or something?"

The editor smiled in relief. "I'll bring Patricia along."

"Should I be jealous?" Donna asked, only half joking. She had no idea who the hell Patricia was, and strangely, she didn't want to find out.

"Only if you have a thing for the lease and collar ensemble," Miranda quipped quickly. Donna blinked, and the editor couldn't continue her deadpanning any longer. "Patricia would be my dog."

_Central Park, December 8__th__, 11:12:31_

Donna wandered into the 79th street entrance of Central Park, and glanced around for the familiar figure of Miranda Priestly. Off in a field, she noticed a woman with a massive, energetically galumphing St. Bernard, and had to double-take when the crest of white hair above a high-collared jacket identified the casually dressed woman as Miranda Priestly.

Donna smiled to herself, and wandered closer to the unlikely pair, snow gathering in the cuffs of her jeans.

"Hello," Miranda smiled, resting her hand on the other woman's arm. "Did you find us all right?"

Donna nodded. "Yes- you're directions were great. Do you live far from here?"

The editor shook her head, the curls of her bangs falling into her eyes. "Not at all. East seventy-third. We're just around the corner."

The innkeeper smiled, and was about to comment when Miranda's dog decided she was feeling left out of the greetings and leapt towards Donna, her massive paws landing on the woman's chest and flattening her on the ground. The editor smirked and half-heartedly tried to call Patricia off.

"I thought you said," Donna wheezed, "that she was a _dog_, not a Saskwatch."

"She's really remarkably well-behaved," Miranda commented dryly.

"I can see that," Donna offered sarcastically, trying valiantly, but with little success, to remove a heavy forepaw, which at present was painfully squashing her left boob into a pancake.

"Patricia, komma här!" Miranda directed clearly. The dog retreated to her side, tongue lolling in a contented smile. "Patricia, sitta!" Patricia sat, albeit _on_ Miranda's foot. Wincing, Miranda glanced at a smirking Donna, who was trying to massage the left area of her chest back into shape. The editor patted the St. Bernard's massive head fondly. "Close enough."

Donna laughed, and grabbed the other woman's hand when Miranda offered to help her up. "You didn't mention the dog was multi-lingual, either."

Miranda made a rueful expression. "She's not. Patricia only actually responds to Swedish, anything else is a fluke. When the girl's father and I got divorced, I wanted them the first Christmas, and I took them to a ski resort called Vallåsen, in Sweden. That's where we found the much smaller, much cuter version of this ungainly creature." Miranda's features softened into a look of concern. "Did she hurt you?'

"Nothing a breast implant won't fix," Donna quipped cheerfully. "I'll have Tanya put me in touch with her plastic surgeon. So" she continued cheekily, "Patricia is Swedish. Even the dog is a cosmopolitan."

Miranda made an abused face. "Twin six year olds, a puppy, at Christmas time. Could you foresee an alternative?"

Donna took a shaky breath. Did Miranda just mention twins? The other woman stared at her with a quizzical expression, and the blond collected herself quickly. Now was not the time to be delving into the future. "You're just a big softy, aren't you?" she denounced the editor fondly.

"That's an accusation I haven't heard," Miranda said, running her fingers around Patricia's ears. "Shall we walk? I wanted to show you the Shakespeare Garden."

The two women, accompanied by a wandering Patricia, made their way along the meandering path through the park.

"So you've been living in Greece," Miranda began somewhat awkwardly. She really didn't have any talent for small talk.

"I was touring with my band," Donna offered.

The editor looked surprised. "You were in a band?"

"The Dynamos," the innkeeper expanded. "I was twenty- and we were in Greece. I met this guy, we really hit it off, then he tells me he's actually engaged, and takes off. I went into rebound mode, and wound up pregnant with my daughter, Sophie."

Miranda took a moment to absorb the influx of information. "And you stayed in Greece?"

Donna sighed heavily, and looked over her shoulder under the pretence of checking Patricia's location. "My mother told me not to bother coming back. She was such a good, devout Catholic. Besides," she continued stoically. "I had work on the mainland. After I had Soph, when she was about three, I bought a rundown Villa on an island and turned it into a business- quaint romantic getaway shtick, you know the deal. Anyway, I've lived on KaloKairi for nearly twenty years."

"So what about you?" Donna asked. "What's the back story of _the_ Miranda Priestly?"

Miranda grimaced. "Born in England to working class, Jewish parents- I hated the thought of being stuck in one place my entire life, to stagnate. I've always wanted _more_. So I dropped out of high school, took off to France, and interned at a fashion house. Opportunities presented themselves, I took them- somewhere along the line, I changed my name."

"You did?" Donna asked, sounding surprised. Miranda nodded, clearly reluctant to divulge. The blonds' eyes twinkled mischievously, and with a cajoling, coy smile, she sidled closer to Miranda. "So what's your real name?"

"My legal name is Miranda Priestly, but," Miranda sniffed, "I was born- and don't you dare laugh- Miriam. Miriam Princhek. My god, I hated that name. Anyway- I worked at several publications, until I was editor in chief of the French _Chic_- and then I moved to New York to take over _Runway_."

"You don't have an accent," Donna remarked sceptically, shoving her hands in her pockets.

"Of course I do," Miranda argued. "I'm speaking 'American' right now."

The innkeeper shot her companion a disbelieving look. "I don't believe you."

Miranda took a calming breath and prepared to make a complete fool of herself. Snubbing her nose with a careless thumb, she launched into her retrospective performance. "Gawdon Bennet! 'Ere I am, standin' on display, an' _you_ don' adam'n eve it?"

Donna snorted, but the editor was in full swing now. "Jesus Donna! I'm tellin' _you_, I was born wivin spittin' distance ov Bow Bells, an' you're tellin' me you don't _believe_ it? Know what I mean?"

Donna shoved a mittened hand against her mouth, and almost suffocated herself trying not to laugh. Miranda was not to be swayed from her hilarity, however, and exhibited no sympathy towards her gasping friend.

"Lawd above!" the fashionista offered expansively. "What is it? The shoes? The _bee 'ive_ 'undred _jonny rollar_ trousers?"

"Quit it-" Donna wheezed, "I'm gonna pee my pants!"

"Awright geezah!" Miranda drawled. "You're a sweet girl, Donna, but 'ere I figured _you_ was in'elligent, an' all. Sorted mate."

Donna doubled over, hiccoughing and gulping for air. She couldn't help it. Miranda Priestly, standing there in her Prada pumps, killer jeans, and high collared jacket, spewing Cockney, was far too incongruous an image for her mind to handle.

"Something funny?" Miranda inquired innocently, reverting back to her 'American' accent.

Gasping, choking, Donna slowly reined herself in and sniffed, wiping at her eyes.

"May I continue?" the editor asked imperiously.

Donna nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"So anyway-" Miranda smirked, all to pleased at how thoroughly she had reduced the other woman to hysterics. "I took over _Runway_, met the girl's father, got married, and had the twins at 39. I was seven months pregnant, _huge_," the silver-haired woman paused to make an expansive gesture in front of her stomach, "and convinced I wasn't going to live through the labour. Two weeks later, I was fine, but," Miranda suddenly became very serious, all evidence of her previous light-heartedness evaporating with alarming speed. "No one except the girl's father knows this- The girls aren't twins- they were triplets. I lost one."

Miranda wandered over to a nearby bench and sat down tiredly, staring off into the bare branches of the surrounding trees. Donna paused, and after a moment of indecision begat by fear, joined her.

"She was just too small," Miranda offered sadly. "I blamed myself, obviously. Too old to carry, too much stress. She was too small," she repeated forlornly. "And there was nothing I could do, no sacrifice-the-mother-to-save-the-child deal to be made. Greg wanted to move on, but for a long time, I couldn't. I accused him of seeing Cleo as surplus, asked what he thought of Cass or Caro- if one of them was extra, too. It ended our marriage. But," Miranda sniffled, betraying her heavy emotions. "Why should I complain? I have two beautiful, healthy girls."

Donna removed a mitt, and reached for the other woman's hand, holding it gently across her lap. "I'm so sorry, Miranda."

The editor shook her head, and dashed the tears out of her eyes with her free hand. "It was a long time ago, and here I am, going on like this- and you-" She couldn't say it. She couldn't bring up Donna's dead husband.

The blond squeezed the other woman's hand more tightly; brushed her thumb over the crests of Miranda's whitening knuckles. "Hush," she soothed. "It isn't a competition, honey."

"Are you negotiating degrees of bereavement with me?" the editor offered through a wobbling smile.

"All I'm saying," Donna began softly, "is that things like that, the loss of a child- they don't just go away, no matter how much time has passed."

Miranda nodded, and squeezed back meaningfully. "And how are you doing?"

The blond fidgeted with the corner of her scarf, and stood, pacing slowly around the bench. The editor, keenly feeling the loss of the warm hand in hers, fell quickly into step beside the agitated woman, and daringly reinstated her fingers between Donna's.

"It's still so surreal," the innkeeper whispered strangely. "We were married for less than a year. He was out of my life for _twenty _years, and I mourned that particular loss. I lived like a freaking nun. This somehow feels familiar, but," Donna stopped walking and looked into the other woman's warm grey eyes, "I know he isn't coming back this time. I don't sleep well anymore, without that hope. Other than that- I don't know. I've upended my entire life, and it's easy to pretend that this is some sort of strange, extended holiday- that KaloKairi will be the same if I go back."

"Have you considered talking to someone about this?" the editor prompted carefully. She was more than willing to listen to anything her companion had to say, but she felt unequipped; inadequate.

Donna waved off the suggestion flippantly. "Lots of people lost someone, Miranda."

"So why are you less worthy of help?" the editor countered adamantly.

"I'm- I should be able to work through this," Donna scoffed. "I always have been. Besides," she smiled bravely. "I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

Miranda frowned. "I'm not exactly quality 'listener' material. Anyone on the street would tell you I'm a cold-hearted, career-obsessed bitch."

Donna winced at the other woman's harsh self-assessment. "They obviously don't know you- or want to. It's more fun to villainize someone, honey."

"Maybe," Miranda conceded, desperate to shift the conversation away from herself, from her failings as a human being. "I've come to terms with it all. But I'm in a demanding business- what happens if I can't always be there, when you need to talk?"

"Then I wait a little while. I've waited this long." Donna offered a warm smile. "I like talking to you, too."

_Winter Sundays_

Donna and Miranda had been meeting in Central Park every Sunday, sometimes with, sometimes without Patricia, to walk the paths, to talk, to spend time knowing one another. Neither woman had spoken much of their unlikely connection, and neither wanted to.

Miranda often found herself wondering if the closeness between them had been brought about by the flash forward, by the feelings she experienced six months in the future. But the editor had always felt herself above influence- she could think for herself.

Yet something possessed her to tell Donna about Cleo- the only person she'd ever divulged her painful secret to. She could've told the twins- maybe she would, when they were older- but what good would that do them? Some ethereal vision of a lost sister; removed; disjointed. And it had felt good to talk about it, to admit her guilt to someone she felt wouldn't judge her. Because everyone judged Miranda Priestly, like they knew her, like they had the right.

Similarly, Donna, being fairly wily, was beginning to mount suspicion that the suave editor of _Runway_ was the woman in her flash forward. Late at night, as she lay awake in bed, she found herself conflicted as to how quickly Miranda was becoming a fixture in her new life.

She could understand Miranda's involvement in her future in several months; their rapidly developing rapport seemed so natural. But the ex-innkeeper struggled to reconcile Miranda's friendship with her flash forward. If that woman was Miranda, the way Donna felt about her then was something far more than friendship. Donna knew she was prone to 'rebound' behaviour- but honestly, that vision, that snapshot of the future had not been about bouncing off of potential lovers like a lost ball- it was different; it was sincere.

By proxy, neither woman had talked about their corroborating visions. Miranda was convinced that Donna had not seen her; terrified that she would shatter what was developing between them. And Donna, while curious about Miranda's vision, and her own, was still too wary of how her future actions would reflect on her as a person; she was still consumed with guilt for moving on after the death of her husband.

.

It was one such Sunday. The weather is mild, the light cool, a gentle snow was falling. The day was grey, and the warming air surrounded them like a soft wool blanket.

Donna and Miranda were in the park, sans dog, meandering easily around one of the parks several outdoor rinks.

The editor, on a strange whim, looked suggestively towards the figures gliding across the ice in the distance. "Let's go skating," she suggested offhandedly.

"Skating," Donna mused reluctantly. "I've been living in Greece for the past twenty years, hun. No skating. I'll break and ankle."

"You won't," the other woman offered, her tone light; coy. "I'll help you. If it's awful, we can stop."

Donna was hard pressed to refuse. Miranda had never asked her for anything. In fact- Miranda didn't ever ask anyone for anything, she demanded it. And the almost shy way which the editor voiced her desire to skate quickly overwhelmed any of Donna's misgivings.

"I'll go," Donna acquiesced slowly, "So long as you promise that if I break anything, _you _will be the one stuck pushing me around in a wheelchair for however long it takes my fractured limbs to heal. Got it?"

"We'll hitch Patricia up to a sled," Miranda joked, sensing triumph. "And start a new trend."

Donna grumbled something unintelligible, and set off towards the rental hut on the far edge of the rink, an less than modestly gloating editor grinning in her wake.

Miranda pushed the blades of her skates against the ice, shifting her weight from leg to leg, moving lithely backwards, beckoning Donna with outstretched hands.

Her companion, who moved slowly towards her, wore a grin of small triumph- until a fast moving man in a pair of beat up hockey skates swerved too close and knocked the blonds' precarious balance out of orbit. Donna wavered for a moment, before toppling spectacularly backwards.

"Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?" Miranda fell quickly to her knees beside her spread eagle friend, hands assessing for injury.

Donna, who had yet to open her eyes, opened them then. "I'm fi-" she began, vision filled with an ethereal image. "I'm...fine..."

Her lips worked, but coherent speech eluded her. In the cool grey light of the winter's sky, Miranda appeared in a halo of silver hair, her ivory skin shimmering. Concerned blue eyes, piercing in contrast, looked down at her as flecks of snow glinted, floating down around them. As if driven by the same gravity, pulling the crystals of ice towards the earth below, Miranda leaned down, pressing her mouth gently against her friend's, her nose cold against a soft, warm cheek.

With a sort of reverence, the editor pulled slowly away, and opened her eyes. Donna lay there in a kind of limbo, her body thrumming hotly in contrast against the ice. She searched Miranda's eyes, and the editor sighed again, her breath warming, as if in apology, the place where her chilled nose had pressed.

Smiling, Donna reached up and pushed the soft wave of hair away from Miranda's eyes, searching; seeing something, not regret, but fear. Gently, Donna pulled her friend down to her mouth, the second kiss less marred by shock, lips pressing, breaths enthralled with one another warmly.

Miranda pulled away again, wearing what she was sure must be the stupidest grin ever to grace her austere features. She was surprised by, but not unwelcoming of the tears stinging her eyes. _Finally._

"My ass is freezing," quipped Donna suddenly, struggling to find purchase on the slick ice; struggling to say _anything_.

Miranda, grateful that the silence was broken, offered a cursory glance at the back of the other woman's jeans. "Looks pretty hot to me," she murmured.

Donna flustered a little, then getting a hold of herself, slapped the editor's thigh playfully, losing her balance again in the process. She rested in defeat on the rink.

Miranda rolled her eyes heavenward, snowflakes gathering on her lashes; melting on her warm cheeks. "Come home with me?" she implored suddenly.

Startled, Donna quirked an eyebrow. It wasn't that she was unwilling- but what _exactly_ had the other woman just asked her, because it had sounded an awful lot like a 'let's go back to my place' line.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Miranda warned, grinning. "_Yet_. My girls are home, and I do need to feed them supper."

The blond blushed spectacularly, and Miranda, feeling benevolent and not a little turned on, leaned forwards and graced her companion's pouting mouth with another kiss.

"Okay," Donna mumbled against the gentle onslaught. "Okay."

Miranda and her guest entered the townhouse quietly. Donna, who was overwhelmed by a wave of déjà vu didn't noticed the twin heads peering blatantly over the banister.

"It's _her_," Caroline whispered loudly.

Miranda watched in maternal fascination as Cassidy rolled her eyes.

"I _know,_ silly. I told you mom would bring her home eventually."

Donna, who was only just getting accustomed to the familiar surroundings, followed Miranda's fond gaze towards the stairs.

"It's _them_," she whispered, staring unabashedly at the girls leaning over the railing.

The editor chuckled, and gestured for her daughters to descend. "This," she said, taking one girl under her arm, "is Caroline. Note the freckle above her left eyebrow. And this," she grabbed her other daughter and patted her affectionately on the head, "is Cassidy. Her eyes are a bit greyer than Caroline's. If you mix them up, they'll never forgive you."

"_Mom_," Caroline whined, taking in Donna's fearful expression. She turned towards their flabbergasted guest. "She's kidding, Donna. If you mix us up more than _once,_ we'll never forgive you."

"Freckle, Caroline," the blond recited dutifully. "And grey eyes, Cassidy. Got it."

Miranda smiled, and brushed Cassidy's bangs out of her eyes. "I'd introduce you all- but it seems as though that would be a bit redundant at this point."

"Duh," Cassidy offered singularly, and grabbed Donna's hand. "Want to come see our rooms?"

The blond cast an inquisitive look towards her friend, and when Miranda nodded indulgently, followed the girls up the stairs.

Half an hour later, when all the stuffed animals had been introduced by name, and all the posters had been ranked in order of the hottest actor, Donna found herself sitting around a large, marble island in the kitchen, picking at her plate of chicken kiev and sautéed french beans.

The twins chatted animatedly, and Miranda watched the scene with one eye, assessing Donna's subdued demeanour with the other. When the food was gone, and the dishes sat expectantly by the sink, the editor shooed her children upstairs to finish their largely ignored homework, and pulled her guest towards the sitting room.

"You were quiet through dinner," Miranda commented carefully. "Are you okay?"

Donna nodded distractedly, her attention focused on a family photo which sat on a nearby side table. "Did you see me?" she asked finally, her voice quiet.

Miranda had been dreading this moment; had been dreading trying to explain to this woman how much she knew. "I did, yes."

Donna nodded, and continued to stare at the photo. It was a picture of Miranda and her girls, all three engrossed in what appeared to be a marathon of cookie-baking. "I saw you, too. But I didn't see your face. I wasn't sure until you brought me here. Why didn't you say anything?"

Miranda leaned forwards and caressed the other woman's face, turning her head until their eyes met. "I didn't want to say something that would influence our interactions. I didn't want to focus on something that hadn't happened yet." She sighed, and shifted closer towards Donna. "I wanted to understand you now, in the present. I didn't go looking for you, my darling. But I found you."

Donna nodded, and pressed her face into the other woman's soft hand. "I'm so glad she turned out to be you," she murmured, tears gathering in her eyes. "I thought, for the longest time, that she had to be you. But I was drowning in my own guilt, too frightened to question anything, too scared of what being with you would mean."

"And do you feel guilty now?" Miranda asked quietly. Everything suddenly hung in a precarious balance.

"I don't know," Donna admitted, gazing searchingly into the other woman's eyes. "But whatever else I'm feeling right now, I want you."

Miranda bit her lip, failing to repress the soft smile spreading like a warm light across her features. She leaned against her friend, her companion. _Her lover._ Lacing her hands together on her lap, blond waves tickling her nose, she sighed contentedly. "I want you, too."

April 29th, 2010: 10:00:00 pm

With a thrill of girlish excitement, Donna reached out and pressed the door chime. She was vibrating with desire to see her lover.

Inside the house, Miranda Priestly called out to her twin daughters, somewhat frazzled. "I'm up to my elbows in dishwater- can one of you get that?"

Caro and Cass stampeded to the door, peering around the oak frame until they saw Donna, their mother's girlfriend, on the front stoop, and immediately threw the door open wide, hurling themselves at her.

Donna laughed, pulling the pyjama clad twins close.

"Erg- Donna!" Caroline complained. "You're squeezing my guts out!"

"Ditto" Cassidy wheezed, wriggling against the woman's strong grasp.

Donna snorted and jabbed each twin in the ribs. "Where's your mother?"

"Kitchen" and "Dishes" followed in synchronicity.

"Come sit with us till she's done," Cassidy pleaded, putting on her best 'adorable twin' smile.

"I should help," Donna argued, and tried to walk towards the kitchen.

"Nuh-_uhn,_" Caroline wheedled. "You know we're going to be banished to bed as soon as she's done, and we haven't seen you since last weekend!"

"Sit," Miranda yelled from the kitchen, all too aware of the dispute taking place in her front hallway.

Donna conceded, and followed the girls into the living room, settling between their affectionately pressing bodies on a plush sofa.

"What'd you do today?" Caroline inquired, twirling the large silver ring on Donna's left hand.

"I was throwing pots at the studio," the blond replied, smiling indulgently.

Cassidy smirked. "That would explain the clay in your hair, then."

The woman sighed, and began picking through the loose strands floating down over her shoulders. Caroline gently slapped her hands away, and began combing through Donna's golden tresses herself.

"Got it!" the girl exclaimed after several seconds, gently picking the clump of dried mud out from the hair behind Donna's ear.

"Thanks," the woman offered softly, pulling a girl under each arm to cuddle them before they were indeed banished for the evening. Since meeting the girls, she'd practically adopted both of them, despite their antics, their never-ending chatter, and entirely because of their genuine kindness and acceptance of her presence in their lives, and their mother's.

Miranda's footsteps sounded in the hallway, and each girl planted a sound kiss on Donna's cheeks before scampering off, bestowing the same gifts on their mother before clambering noisily up the stairs.

The fashionista sidled up behind Donna, and the blond smelled her perfume before turning on the lounge and pressing her face into the warmth of Miranda's torso.

"Know what today is?" the blond commented obtusely.

Miranda played oblivious. 'Fuck- I forgot your birthday, didn't I?'

Donna swatted her girlfriend playfully on the ass, and in the editor's distracted state, lifted the front of her blouse to blow an unceremonious raspberry on her stomach.

Miranda squealed despite herself, for yes, as Donna's lover, she had been making the most incongruous noises of late. Before she spilt them, she set the glasses of wine on a side table.

Donna shushed her lover's loud complaint, and Miranda threw her an accusatory glare. Grinning, and looking more than slightly predatory, the blond dragged her girlfriend up three flights of stairs to the master bedroom. With a look that could only be described as lascivious, Miranda locked the door behind them.

Loving had become so easy between them, the months since their unlikely kiss on the Central Park skating rink seemed to flow together, to merge into one long session of embraces, sensual passion, and now, amidst warm kisses and disjointed groping, they undressed each other quickly, both eager to make the future their present.

They were moving all at once, lips pressing, sucking, latching onto aching nipples. Legs entwined, hands grabbed hold of anything they could. Fingers stroked, delved, reached back to mouths to taste. Who was on top, on the bottom- they could scarcely tell the difference.

Miranda was teasing her lover now, sweeping her fingers lightly through folds, and Donna's hips moved towards the elusive touch; she keened.

As if offering bribery- she eagerly slid a hand between Miranda's soft thighs and cupped her cunt. Miranda sighed, head lolling forwards.

"Together," Donna urged, and sunk gratefully onto the revisiting fingers, grinding her clit against the palm of the other woman's hand.

Miranda whimpered, then. Donna was at it, touching her so fucking right, and they dissolved into a sleek, writhing knot, surging against one another, nipples kissing.

"I'm close baby," Donna sighed.

"Wait for me-" Miranda murmured, hips twisting, back arching.

Donna could hardly breathe. With a free hand, she pressed into the small of Miranda's back, crushing her lover closer, their whole bodies fucking each other. Miranda moaned, a sound which began deep in her throat, a purring, desperate growl.

"Come with me," Donna entreated, nibbling at Miranda's lower lip, hips surging forwards, begging.

Overwhelmed, Miranda pulled Donna's face to hers, a handful of soft hair her only purchase until their mouths connected. With a whimper against forgiving, smiling lips, Miranda, for once in her life, did as she was told, and the pair pressed together, a moment fractured, frozen in pleasure.

And then breath came, and slow undulations in the ebb of orgasms passed, and Donna pulled her lover down, to snuggle against her breasts.

"That was-" Miranda began, still gasping.

"Mhmm," Donna hummed, running lazy fingers through platinum waves.

"Exactly." The editor sighed, wrapping her hand possessively around the curve of a hip. "How do you _do_ that?"

Donna shifted, and rolled over to face Miranda, tracing a finger down the sweet path of a laugh line. "Last year, a certain underground spring of some repute blew a great big _fucking_ hole in the courtyard of my villa. I was drenched." Miranda raised an eyebrow, confused. "I'm a walking Aphrodite, baby," the blond clarified.

"_Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_," offered the fashionista, smirking.

Donna made an unimpressed face, and poked her lover in the ribs. "Latin, gorgeous? You must have me confused with someone who _finished_ high school."

"Fine. _Uck-fay e-may owly-slay_," Miranda continued quixotically, trailing her fingers across her lover's spine, under her arm, to rest gently under the swell of her breast.

Donna muffled a chuckle behind her hand. "While I am disinclined," she began, adopting a rather familiar tone, while straddling her lover, "to acquiesce to your request, given the implications of the language shift, I fear I have no choice but to give in to your immodest suggestion."

Miranda giggled as the gentle fingers traveled down her stomach, inside her thigh.

Donna paused, thoughtful. "What did you say, anyway?"

"What?" Miranda asked, leaning up on her elbows, her silver hair rebelling in about seven directions. "The latin?" Donna nodded, refusing to move her fingers until she was given an answer.

Miranda smiled, quirking an eyebrow. Tenderly, her hand smoothed sweaty, flyaway strands of golden hair, and cradled Donna's face in her palm. "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts."

"Brat," the blond woman offered fondly, before leaning down and latching her lips around her lover's still throbbing clit. Miranda sighed blissfully and sunk back into the pillows.


End file.
